


Spicy Cat Adventure 2: Mild Flavor

by Mimiga



Series: Melandru Willing [2]
Category: Guild Wars (Video Game), Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Atholma, Dervish - Freeform, F/M, Olmakhan - Freeform, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimiga/pseuds/Mimiga
Summary: Dhamon Matthews is no longer your ordinary neighborhood acolyte. Having graduated from his master's teachings, he is now a fully-fledged practitioner of the dervish profession. What that also means is that he must become a traveling warrior-priest that helps those in need, as is the old way. Instead of doing that, this motherfucker follows a whim in search of the Olmakhan, a lost tribe of charr, crossing his fingers that they actually are dervishes like Markus suggested. In doing so, he meets a battered, xenophilic old sandshifter who very much likes the fact that this human has all the workings of a perfect Olmakhan mate. They fuck in chapter 8.
Relationships: Male Human/Female Charr
Series: Melandru Willing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060535
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

Dhamon had seen a great deal of landscapes in his time. The sweeping plains of Ascalon, gone scarlet with the infectious bloom of irises. The rigid icecaps of the Shiverpeaks and the blue shadows they cast on a fresh snowfall. The tropical coastlines of Kryta, plagued with saltwater skale despite the crystalline waters. He'd even been to the northern forests, where the ground was soft with ripe undergrowth and the red trees spanned many arms lengths across. All these places were impressive in their own rights--each demonstrating different aspects in the wide swathe of Melandru's grace. 

He was not particularly impressed with his first experience with temperate jungles, however. 

There were insects everywhere. Mosquitos were one thing, but whole clouds of beetles? Nephilia large enough to use his skull as a soup bowl? Crested termites the size of his glaive? That was certainly a bit excessive. The heat wasn't something particularly new to him, either, but the humidity added an extra layer of suffering to it. It was hard to believe that there was a desert not half a day east of this shoreline. When he wasn't trudging through bug-infested sawgrass in mud-soaked sandals, he was edging along sheer cliffs and dealing with the rocky verticality of the place. Dajkah was unpleasant to say the least. 

The boatman he'd hired had left him more or less penniless, not that gold would help him in a place like this. That was the point. His first journey as a fully-fledged dervish would be a reckless gambit--a leap of faith in every sense of the phrase. The idea seemed fitting at the time. Perhaps a little less now. 

The sun was beginning to set now. The distance his legs had carried him since his landing at noon wasn’t quite enough. There was still some time left--maybe an hour or two before he was forced to settle down for the night. Attuned to nature as he may be, he was not a particularly talented woodsman. 

The mountainous hillsides did eventually flatten out as he meandered further inland. A baobab forest sprawled out from verdant patches where the granite wasn't too harsh on their roots. The winding branches and canopy served to shield him from most of the evening's abrasive rays, and the land was pleasantly firm beneath his feet. Expressing his breathless thanks to his god, Dhamon brushed off his soiled robes, smoothed out his beard, and wandered on. If there ended up being nothing out here at all, at least it wasn't an endless plane of swamps to tread and boulders to climb. 

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if there really was anything on this island. The assumption was that it might take him days, perhaps even weeks, of aimless searching to find an answer. Mere rumors were the foundation of this entire month-long journey. He would come out of this wiser, no matter if he found failure or success. 

Never in his imagination did he expect his pursuit of knowledge to find him first, however. Squinting against the dotted sunrays and swatting at flies, Dhamon was stricken with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. A sudden pause in the croaking of the frogs. A broken voice in the singing crickets. He stopped in place, hand over his shoulder on the shaft of his polearm, waiting for the moment to erupt into sound. Rustling bushes filled the space instead. A half-dozen large bodies, unexpectedly talented at stealth. One less than a dozen piercing stares. 

Charr. 

A sane man might shit his britches in such a situation, being set upon by a whole pack of savage beasts. That made it all the stranger when relief and joy washed over him. 

"A human?" one of the charr said aloud in an accent he'd never heard leave the mouth of any legion-born. It was thicker and more pronounced, like a vabbian lisp mixed with a growl. "I almost didn't believe you." 

"You hardly believe me in the first place," another replied. A short flurry of whispers traveled through the group. 

A hush went over the chattering hunters as one of them stood straight on their hind legs. While Dhamon's knowledge was a bit hazy, the fanned tail and short disposition made them out to be a female. Her one remaining eye was a spotlight of bluish grey, cautiously trained on him with an icy stare. Like the others, this charr wasn't exactly what you'd call armored, garbed in some leather trappings that covered only half the surface area of her black fur, but the gnarled staff she stamped into the dirt didn't seem like it was there to help her walk. 

"You. Human." The black charr's voice was harsh and gravely. "Do you speak our language?" 

"I do," Dhamon eagerly answered. 

"Good. It would be very inconvenient otherwise. Tell me this, traveler. Why is there an armed human roaming around our hunting lands alone?" 

"Are you the Olmakhan?" 

The charr blinked. "That would depend on your answer. You don't look like the trader sort, and if you're not here to make monetary gain, then I worry about what other gains you hope to make." 

It was with great care that Dhamon withdrew his glaive from the sash over his back. Moving his hand ever-slower, he brought the weapon around his shoulder and held it horizontal in his grasp. There was a stirring in the hunting party. He made no sudden movements, not even to glance up at their reactions. The dervish simply stared at the soil as he knelt down on his knees and placed the weapon in front of him. He bowed his head and relaxed his shoulders, as he did so many times before in front of his old master. A priest's posture, made for reverence and respect. 

In this position, he spoke his foolish request loud enough that his doubts were forced into the shadows. 

"Several years ago, I had heard rumor from a legion charr that there was a tribe of his kind in the south, cut off from the rest of the world in a secluded corner of Elona. I heard that they had set themselves apart from the ruthless ways of their brethren and became mystics of nature!" 

"Oh dear, I dislike that we’re a rumor. And?" the black charr pressed on. "What of it, traveler? I haven't got the patience to play around with words tonight." 

He bowed even lower. "I am a cleric of the wild in search of knowledge! I came to this place because I wished to learn about your ways!" 

An explosion of muttering. Curious tones, mostly, though there was a lot of disbelief in the mix. Dhamon had spent an unhealthy amount of time along this arduous journey thinking about what he was going to say at this exact part, and now that the fleeting moment had passed, the doubt came flooding back in like rebounding rubber on a trajectory with his face. 

The leader of the group snickered after a pause. "I don't think I've ever heard that one before. Humans are a prideful and vain race. To find one wandering our lands alone, claiming that they came to ask charr of all creatures how to worship the earth? I find that especially hard to swallow." 

"Then I will show you," Dhamon said, sitting upright once more. "Ever since I heard of your tribe's existence, I had always wondered if you truly used the same magicks as I. Perhaps I can demonstrate that we have some common ground?" 

It was second nature. A tilt of his head, a short line of prayer chants, and a rush of sensation. Melandru was ever-watchful from the corners of Tyria, and as her disciples so wished for the earth to move, she would answer. Though the gust of wind howled in his ears, it was a sound of tranquility, that his will had reached out to the cradle of life that surrounded him. From his knelt position, he manifested a gentle vortex of natural magic. It was a simple incantation that didn't serve much of a practical purpose on its own, other than being converted into more verbose prayers. And yet, the charr collectively gasped at the sight. 

"The human's a sandshifter! Where did he learn that?! It couldn't have been from one of us, could it?" 

"Of course he's not a sandshifter. It's just an illusion. He's obviously trying to trick us!" 

"Shut up, Senn. You should be able to recognize our own magic. He's definitely using it." 

The black charr let out a growl, forcing the group silent. Her expression was...difficult to read, especially in this strained light on such dark fur. The teeth-bearing caution had mostly passed, but whatever else was swirling behind that single left eye was impossible to tell. 

"...How interesting," she finally said. "You know what? Perhaps it is as you say. We might very well have some common ground. It's not my place to say whether you may enter our village, but I'm in the kind of mood where I could be persuaded to bring you before the elders, hm? What do you say, stranger? Mind to sate my curiosity?" 

The charr presumably named Senn scowled. "Gwynn, you can't be serious! This outsider--we have no idea where he even came from! We don't know if knowledge is his true intention or not! We can't just LET someone like this walk straight into Atholma!" 

Another hiss forced him to quiet. That spotlight eye turned back and shot a glare at the young hunter. "You can't. I can. And I'm intrigued. The elders can lay all their blame on me if this turns sour, but who am I to turn down such a unique opportunity?" 

"What would you have me do?" Dhamon said aloud, his enchantment finally sputtering out into a cloud of disturbed dust. 

"There is a large wild Siamoth we've been tracking in this area. The Festival of Spring is fast approaching, and we've been given the task of hunting this creature down to serve as a main course in the feast. You say you are a cleric of the wilds, and you've seemingly demonstrated a solid grasp on our natural magicks, but I want to see your frame of mind. You will hunt this beast for us, and you will be judged." 

"Is this really a good idea, Gwynn?" One of the hunters in the back said, a nervous arrow notched in their bow. "Elder Dorran will be displeased if this outsider butchers that Siamoth. There's a reason he gave you this task." 

But the black charr known as Gwynn shrugged and settled back down on all fours. "Lead on, stranger. Show me you are worthy. This is an investment I would hate to be disappointed in." 

Orders given by hordes of toothy beasts were typically better off being followed. Still, if it wasn't made clear already, Dhamon wasn't exactly an expert woodsman. Snatching up his glaive and brushing off more caked mud from his robes, he turned to the surrounding forest and frowned. Hopefully they weren't expecting him to be as perceptive as a charr. Trailed at a good distance by the hunting party, his search started in the dense brush that surrounded the warped baobab trees. Siamoth weren't known to be the most inconspicuous creatures, at least. 

There were signs here and there. Upturned patches of soil where bulbs had been dug up. Piles of scat that weren't more than a few hours old. Scratches on bark, tracks in mud. The hunt took him down a few slopes that threatened to snap his ankles should he slip. The waning sunlight shone down at a small gully between two cliffs. Across from the one he scaled, a stream trickled over the rocks and converged into a small creek at the bottom. Thankfully, he managed to find a set of familiar tracks that lead deeper into the gully. If there was ever a time to believe Melandru was guiding him, it was now. 

The creek came to an end. It opened up into a pond half-covered by the overhanging cliff above it. Dhamon went silent, carefully placing his steps as he approached the watering hole. The grove was lush with emerald foliage and insects, but more than that, it was the resting place of his quarry. A surprisingly huge porcine beast lumbered through the shade and cooling mists, greedily lapping from the waters with little care in the world. It was incredible how a predator hadn't already nicked this oblivious thing for themselves. 

"Mother Melandru, this prayer I utter to ye, for from your land I prepare to take." 

Feeling the audience of intense stares at his back, Dhamon slowly approached the beast, uttering an orison which he rarely had to. As if in affirmation of his intent, a gust swelled behind him and urged him forward. He grasped at the wind and let it shroud his limbs. A gentle mist sprung from the creek as his sandals pushed through the frigid current. With one hand he pulled his hood up, and with the other he grasped at his trusty weapon. Easy, now. The Siamoth was slow to startle, but any sudden movements would make this much more difficult than it had to be. 

A minute of approach amounted to a mere handful of split seconds. The Siamoth turned its gaze toward him. A resolute stomp launched the dervish forward and a whirling gale guided his blade. The creature kicked up a hail of gravel as it reflexively fled, but not quick enough. He carried his glaive through the motion and slashed at the Siamoth's hind leg, cleanly slicing the tendon. A great shifting in mass, supported by one leg too little, turned the retreat into a tumble. Clumps of sod and water droplets flew through the air and got caught up in the personal vortex that had surrounded Dhamon. 

He made a pivot, a pirouette of flashing steel, and came down with another swift slash. The stubborn beast flailed and screeched, ignorant that the struggle would soon turn to peace. The metallic scent of fresh, hot blood poured out into the weeds. Another slice to quicken the end, the earth hardening beneath his feet to facilitate the steps of his lethal dance. The soil anticipated his last movements and thrusted him upwards as his sandals came down. His scarlet-stained blade passed over the ground and caught the magic in its momentum, twirling the handle around his arm and over his head. 

One final swing, straight down with all the force of his weight and ambition. The spine was severed like a knife through butter. Apart from the instinctual twitches of life not yet drained from its body, the beast was no more. 

"And may you take this creature unto your realm, so that it might find its place in the endless wilderness," he continued on the tail end of a ragged breath, lifting his glaive away and kneeling beside the fading animal. "I take this cut of your bounty, not for greed and gluttony, but in solace and respect. I thank you, O Melandru, for this kill bestowed unto me, merciful and clean." 

Silence. The creek applauded his performance, but the rest of his audience refrained from any kind of response. Dhamon pulled back his hood, unsure if the hunting party had followed him in the first place, but a shifting in the leaves eventually gave their positions away. The charr emerged one at a time, either in awe or shock judging from their stares. When Gwynn appeared, she slammed the blunt of her staff into the ground. 

"Well?" she said to her followers. "What are you lot waiting for? Go fetch the prey! Was it not justly killed? Did he not slay with purpose and gratitude? Hurry, the day's almost done and we have a long walk back with a great deal to carry!" 

Several of the charr heeded the order and hurried past the dervish. One stayed behind and spoke up. Jagged horns, a permanent scowl, and ash-colored fur. Senn, right? 

"But how? This outsider--it's impossible for him to already know our customs! Even with the elonians who come by to barter, they care too little for our culture to practice it! And he is brighter skinned than they are, so I doubt he came from them in the first place!" 

Dhamon went to clean his blade in the running water, glancing up at the young male. "These techniques I was taught originate from Elona, but I am not from there. I hail from the north, in a region called Kryta. The fact that our ways are so similar is why I felt compelled to seek your tribe out in the first place. These arts I carry are a dying breed. Where else could I go to learn more?" 

"Hmph." Gwynn's pearly fangs went on display as she shot the male a smug grin. She approached Dhamon with the same expression. "Then it's settled. I will present you to the elders, and you will give your request directly to them. Were it up to me, I'd already welcome you with open arms after seeing what I've seen, but I am not yet one of the elders." 

One of the other hunters, hoisting the dripping kill onto their shoulders with the others, snickered. "Sure you are. You just aren't one of the important ones." 

"Watch your mouth, runt. Unless you want to be the one that skins that entire animal." 

With that, and a tilt of Gwynn's head to gesture the dervish to follow, the party went off in a westernly direction. The rush of the kill left as quickly as it had arrived, but there was a different feeling abuzz in his chest--one he wasn't quite sure what to make of yet. Excitement, surely, but mixed with a hundred other emotions that all butt in front of one another. For one, the disbelief in the fact that the Olmakhan tribe existed in the first place. Or that he managed to win an audience with them so quickly. A blessed man does not take for granted that which is given to him. 

Well, not that he was out of the water yet. 

He trailed the hunters for an hour or so. The dusk transitioned into twilight, casting violet hues over the night and revealing a ceiling of stars. With a dim hue of blue to see by, they passed by a few crumbling stone ruins. Beyond those, farms. Rows of dirt mounds were organized on flattened sections between escarpments. A third of the northern sky was mountain, and a third of that, agriculture. Actually, he had yet to see the charr farm like this before, and never so modestly either. The farms in Ascalon were all oversized, industrious, and viciously efficient. These were much more reasonable. 

"I present to you, traveler: Atholma," Gwynn had fallen back to say to him. She extended a claw towards the hill they were about to crest and smiled. "Not many outsiders will ever see it. Consider yourself fortunate." 

Dhamon pressed up the final paces of the path and gazed down at the village, and for all the places he had seen in his still-short life, never had he laid eyes upon somewhere quite like this. 

Atholma was built upon the sides of a coastal cliff. The reed structures, reinforced by many strategic beams of wood, stood proudly overlooking the ocean. Whiffs of salt spray whipped at his face, and with it came the flavorful smoke of distant fires and kilns. There was hardly any metal, and what little of it there was seemed to be in support of great wooden walkways and thatch-covered huts. Expansive rope nets, fabric dome ceilings, and in the far distance barely in his field of view, an expansive pier that went well out into the sea. 

"Ah," fell out of his mouth unceremoniously. 

"Ah?" she replied. 

"If someone had shown me a painting of this place and told me that charr had built it, I would not have believed them." 

"...I'll take that as a compliment." Gwynn turned to her party. "Hey! Bring that pig down to Sharl! He needed to start working on that kill hours ago! Quit dragging your feet, you barely had to do anything today!" 

The dervish did his best to look presentable, which wasn't saying much. His long robes were in dire need of a wash, his hair was a wreck, and his beard refused to straighten out. The blood didn't make him seem any more inviting, either. "I suppose you have to take me to your elders immediately, right?" 

"You suppose right," she sounded almost disappointed. "Right this way, then. Let's see who's still around at this hour." 

Even as the moon rose over the mountains and pushed Dwayna's star further along in the sky, the village was more lively than he could have ever imagined. The place looked more like one of those old Krytan fishing villages his father used to tell him stories of. Defensible and sturdy, the homes and workshops of the Olmakhan were highlighted with the flames of supper meals. A lot of seafood, by the smell of it, and much more. There was laughter and conversation, too, and not the rancorous kind you find radiating from the bars of the Iron Citadel. Genuine and heartfelt revelry. 

A charr that was lighting torches along the main path around to shore stopped and ogled at the human for a while before Gwynn shooed him on. “What a bother. I’ve always hated being stared at.” 

And apparently he was wrong about the metallurgy part. There was actually a great deal of iron to be seen in Atholma. Mainly, the massive sunken airship that jut out from the water's edge. Reinforced with a great many planks and decorated with a patchwork tent fabric ceiling, the Olmakhan repurposed this fallen giant into almost a hub of sorts. It seemed that it was also his destination. 

"Intimidated?" Gwynn took the time to ask him while they moved. 

He shook his head. "Not particularly. I've been thinking of this day for some time. And, frankly, I find it amusing that charr leadership naturally gravitates towards large metal domes." 

Five illuminated seats were elevated above a central circular platform, its original purpose lost to time and ingenuity. Beneath the flapping sails and banners, they crossed over the grated iron bridge and stepped into the middle. At first glance, it seemed that there was no one around, but a charr did make their presence known soon enough. They came from somewhere behind the thrones--a male, definitely. His spotted coat bordered on brown, but tribal markings distracted the eye and shifted his colors closer to orange. Beneath his fanned mane was a look of confusion. 

"Gwynn? Who...Who is this that you have brought here?" the elder said, his shoulders growing rigid and his tail whipping. "You were sent to fetch that Siamoth for the feast tomorrow. I see that you have instead found an outsider. I don't suppose there's a story behind this, is there?" 

The black charr raised her head proudly, her weathered features on display. "We found him wandering our hunting grounds alone. And we did bring back that Siamoth, Elder Narn, but I had it slain by this human instead." 

"Did he-" 

"No," Gwynn cut him off. "He slew the beast with all the respect that it was due. And it was a very clean hunt, at that. This is the reason I bothered to bring an outsider before you in the first place." With that, she took a step back, and presented him with a bow of her head. 

Dhamon got into the same kneeling position as before. Hiis glaive clattered against the metal floor despite how carefully he tried to put it down. 

"I am Dhamon Matthews, from the northern country of Kryta. I come before you and your tribe as a peaceful nomad and as a priest. The values your people carry are the same as the ones I was taught by my master, who passed to me the torch of a dying human art. If you would allow me to stay in Atholma, I would strive to solve any problem and pass any test you offer. In exchange, I wish to learn of your culture and your magic. That is the reason I am here." 

"What is this?" the elder went on to say. "You say you had this outsider hunt that beast for you? Is this your obsession blinding your actions, or have you truly found this human to be honest?" 

That got the black charr's eye twitching. "Do not call it an obsession, Narn. It is a curiosity--something many of the others raise out of their cubs at a young age. And do not judge this one so quickly. My party and I all saw him using the same techniques as a sandshifter. My own spells, elder. I know them when I see them. This human was truly one with the earth as he slew that Siamoth. Right down to the killing blow that quickly ended the beast's life, or the prayers he spoke over its fallen body. It's absolutely uncanny, but he speaks the truth. He knows our ways." 

Narn sized the human up, squinting through the dark with wrinkled eyelids. A deep rumbling came from his throat. "You’re certain of this, Gwynn?" 

"You already know my opinion, elder," she said. "I would not have brought him before you if I wasn’t certain." 

"Bringing an outsider into our fold is a great responsibility. It will almost certainly affect the way the others see you. If you are to one day join this council, you must be held fully accountable for this decision as if you already were." 

Gwynn brought a claw to her chest. "I know. I already considered that." 

Then came a dismissive wave of the elder's hand. He turned away and started down the steel ramp from the platform of thrones. As he walked by Dhamon upon his exit, he made one last pass over the human, then gave a satisfied grunt. "Nature bless you, then. Welcome to Atholma. May our home be your own while you are here." 

The air of formality came and went with the elder's departure. Dhamon wondered if it was just him, but came to hear a sigh of relief pour from Gwynn's mouth. The charr's shoulders had to have sunk at least a couple of inches. Rubbing at her joints, she shot a side-eyed glare at the dervish. 

"Now you owe me one favor. You're about to owe me another. Come on." 

Deeper into the village they went. The sprawling expanse of docks encompassed the shallows and beyond, reaching out to lonely islands just off the shore. The tide was high and the waves lapped softly against the pillars. That charr who was lighting the torches snuck another peek at him from afar, but he didn't mind. The sooner his presence stopped being a surprise to the indigenous people here, the better. Though his plan...might have lacked a part two, now that he was actually here. It was unwise to reap a harvest that had yet to grow. It couldn't have been too difficult, at least. These weren't legion charr. They were reasonable. Perhaps even more so than his own countrymen. 

"There," said Gwynn, pointing off towards one of the reed structures on the second layer of a vertical walkway. "That house is not occupied. Well, it's occupied by a small harvest of carrots, which you're welcome to take from. That will be where you sleep. My home is that one across from it on the ground. You'll be able to tell from the size." 

He lowered his head. "Melandru bless you. This opportunity means a great deal to me. It is the first time I've walked my own path rather than the one my old master had paved for me. I will repay this debt in any way I can." 

"I know you will. Dhamon, was it? Strange name. Do me a favor and stay out of trouble. It's a complicated thing that you arrived when you did. Tomorrow's an important day, and you're what everybody leasts expects. Don't make me regret this." 

"You won't," he assured her with his hands locked together before his heart. 

An expectant grunt came in return. The black charr looked more at home in the moonlight, he noticed. The aged lines of her face seemed to soften, and her silver eye was a fairly obvious comparison to make. Years of elonian sun had a way of sharpening features, after all. It seemed that even the fearsome charr wasn't exempt from this reality. 

Oh shit. How long was he holding eye contact just now? The dervish turned away and examined the glows of distant flames, lips shut tight while his tongue moved to curse at himself. Now was not the time to bring that deviancy up. 

At the very least, Gwynn shared the sentiment and turned tail towards her home. "Nature be praised. Have a restful sleep, human. I have a feeling you will need it."


	2. Chapter 2

It was a dizzying thing to wake up in a place like Dhamon did. Huddled in the corner of a reed shack, sidled up next to a few baskets of carrots, blinking dreamily as he wondered where the hell he was. Yesterday flashed through his head all at once, and like a pot set to boil his emotions started to bubble up in his throat. A proper dervish will always appear calm in any situation, but it felt impossible to suppress the feeling he got when he knelt beside the doorway, peeking out at a village he wasn't even sure existed two nights ago. 

Atholma. A place dedicated to nature. The home of the Olmakhan. 

He'd slept in, admittedly. The cliff this hut was built upon faced west, away from the dawn. The dawn had come and went judging from the angle that the sun cast on the beaches below. 

The Olmakhan have been hard at work for a while now, casting their nets into the sea and stalking the shallows with their harpoons. An uncomfortable heat radiated down from the heavens, but the cool oceanic breeze kept everything at a workable temperature. No briefings next to behemoth metal tanks. No patrols or higher orders. Not even an explosive or firearm in sight. It wouldn't surprise him if he was still dreaming, honestly. 

While hesitant to make a scene of himself, Dhamon didn't see much harm in stepping into the open and getting some fresh air. The walkway was definitely built with more agile users in mind, but it was sturdy as an ox. Regardless of how these charr lived, they still went about their lives with the same indefatigable energy, and today was to be no exception. It must have been preparations for the Festival of Spring that Gwynn was talking about. 

"Hey!" 

Dhamon wouldn't have called it a tiny voice by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly young for a charr. He turned to see a sand-colored cub standing on the walkway with him. Child or not, he nearly came up to his chest already. 

"You're a human!" the cub shouted. 

The dervish pretended to think about it for a moment. "Yes, I'd say that's accurate. Hello, little one." 

"The only humans I ever get to see come by on ships. My brother talked about you last night when he got home. He says you're a sandshifter like us." 

"I believe that's also an accurate thing to call me. Sure." 

He glanced down at Dhamon's robes. "Sheesh, you're filthy! Are humans always this gross? Don't you at least wash your manes?" 

"We do, actually. I just haven't had the chance to yet. It took me a long time to make it here." 

"And what's with the blood? Did you kill something on your way here? You didn't hunt something you weren't supposed to on our island, did you?" the cub scrunched up his nose. "Mom says we have to be careful what we hunt, or else we'll mess up the whole forest and starve." 

Dhamon didn't exactly have to kneel down next to the cub, but he bent down a little anyway. "I would never do something like that. Your brother must be one of the hunters I helped last night, actually. This blood is from a Siamoth we tracked down for the feast tonight." 

The child's eyes went wide, a gasp in their throat. "We're having Siamoth this year?! You’re serious?! Oh, I gotta tell Semi about this! That's her all-time favorite!" 

"Vann! What do you think you're doing up there?" A gruff shout came from below. There, a familiar black charr glanced up with her one eye. "You know better than to bother outsiders! Run along, now!" 

The cub was hardly perturbed by the scolding, scurrying off up the ramp while still muttering about the feast. Dhamon went in the opposite direction and down a steep decline, sadly with only half the enthusiasm. Gwynn met him at the bottom. 

"The main course of the feast is supposed to be revealed at the zenith of the festival, you know," she said. 

"Oh." Dhamon glanced off into the distance. "I wasn't aware of that. I apologize." 

She rolled her eyes and beckoned for him to follow. "Don't be. That one and his friends are little troublemakers. Would've broken into our kitchen to see what was being prepared had you not spilled the secret early. That slip-up's gonna spread among the kids, but it saves us having to deal with the mess they would've caused otherwise." 

It was a short distance to Gwynn's abode. The dervish garnered a few stares while he traveled that fleeting distance, but most went back to their tasks quickly after. How quickly did news of his arrival spread, he wondered? Probably like wildfire if the size of the village was any indication. 

Gwynn ushered him into her home. It was spacious compared to the other houses scattered along the shore, but definitely still more modest than the kind of cottage you could get in Queensdale. The circular design and vaulted roof didn't give the space any particular corners, though the reed-woven sleeping mat served as a fairly central piece. Most of the natural light came from a hatch in the roof, through which he could see the wispy trails of the clouds. 

There were few personal possessions to speak of. A majority of what he could see were practical tools, containers, fur trappings, or the occasional shamanic instrument. The woven trunk in the corner was somewhat interesting, but for the most part he only saw a bare-boned, very charr-like room. 

His guide gave a half-hearted kick to a clay pot as she passed. The water inside sloshed about and spilled a few droplets on the floor. "See if you can't give yourself a rinse. There's more water nearby and some soap off to the side. Your robes are gonna smell rancid if you don't do something about them." 

He uttered a brief thanks and started to strip most of the way down. It occurred to him that he was uncomfortable getting half-naked in front of a female charr, which made it all the more important that he suppress the shit out of that feeling and act like he paid it no mind at all. And besides, he wasn't about to turn down the opportunity for a wash. This was the only pair of linens he brought, dammit. 

Gwynn herself didn't seem to care, at least. Her tail whipped back and forth as she lumbered over to the sleeping mat and settled down. She reached over her side and snatched up a pestle and mortar from nearby, crushing up whatever herbal substance was within and applying it to her wrists in earnest. 

"So," she began while they both fumbled with their respective tasks. "Dhamon, correct? Yeah. Well, now that I have you here, why don't I break the ice with something that isn't very fun? How'd you find out about the Olmakhan from so far north?" 

"Another charr, from Ascalon. He was once a part of an order of scholars separate from the legions, but returned once he found a warband to return to. I imagine he likely found that information there, but it was only in passing. I had to do much more digging to make it to this point." 

"How many people know where you have gone? Can you be easily tracked here?" 

He shrugged, and in the same motion scrubbed at that pesky blood that had stained his nice sage-colored robes. "Aside from that boatman I paid to reach the northern shore, not really. I came of my own volition with the passing help of the caravans I hitched to get this far south." 

The charr sighed and set the pestle aside. "Good. It's a matter of security, if you can imagine. We're not exactly completely shut away from the world, but the wars we ran from still exist. It's better the less outsiders know about us. I'm sure you understand." 

"No kidding," he mumbled, shooting a glance at the beautiful sky just through the skylight. "If I lived here, I would do everything in my power to protect it, too. I probably still would, anyway." 

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said. "Anyway, that question was mostly just a formality. Here's one that I care about more. You're clearly a sandshifter. Perhaps not in name, but unquestionably in technique and demeanor. It's no wonder you would be drawn to rumors of our tribe. You said that this was a...a dying human art, was it? Explain that to me." 

What a strange thing to have to explain to a charr while in his unmentionables. Oh well. "Hundreds of years ago, before Palawa Joko came to rule everything south of the Crystal Desert, there was an order of warrior-priests born of simple folk who wished to bring comfort to a land torn apart by civil war. That's what my master was taught anyway, and so that is what I will teach. Dervishes are the living extensions of both the gods and the lands which they watch over. I am part of a sect which exists to serve the goddess Melandru, who governs the wilds and all of nature." 

Gwynn's face went sour, but she remained silent, prompting Dhamon to speak up. "Still don't have much of a soft spot for gods, huh? I've never met a charr that did." 

"It-...It's a complicated matter. The charr have never needed deities. What we--what the Olmakhan worship--is set apart from that. Nature does not NEED a ruler. It is absolute, and while delicate, is an unstoppable cycle of death and rebirth. It requires our protection, but it also protects us." 

He lowered his gaze and redoubled his focus on his clothes. "Pardon me for that, then. I do still hope that I can learn from your people in spite of our differences." 

The slightest of chuckles left the weathered charr's throat. She stood up and wandered over to that woven trunk at the far end of the hut. After briefly considering his words, she stared at the hidden contents of the container for a few seconds, then turned back to him. "Tell me about Melandru. And your other gods, for that matter." 

"...You're serious?" the dervish nearly dropped his garments into the soiled water. 

She reached into the trunk and withdrew a scroll, coiled around an ornamental silver rod. Gradually making her way over, she unfurled the yellow paper and began to recite the contents back to him. He recognized it instantly as a psalm to Dwayna, referring to a spell that was used to purify the bread of her followers of contaminants and mold. Though she said it as dryly as a servant reads out a list of guests at a noble's party, the words still resonated in his chest like she was a preacher. 

"Where did you get that?" he asked. "Why did you get that?" 

The charr returned to her bed and set the scroll aside. "An elonian merchant two years back, and because I wanted to." She curled up and applied more of that oily balm to her joints. "I do not believe in your gods, necessarily. But their influence exists, whether the charr want them to or not. You can clearly give praise to the earth just as well as we can, and our ideals align in a seemingly perfect way, but our modes are not the same. Doesn't that make you curious? Isn't that an itch you had no idea you needed to scratch?" 

"Well I came to the Olmakhan, didn't I?" 

"Ah." Gwynn looked up. "Yes. Yes, you did. It’s no coincidence that we have met, this much I am certain of. I think that we are very much alike. You will not find a charr in Atholma with the same mindset as I have. In the same way that we have learned from the world that Olma originally fled from, there is much to learn from the world as it is now. That is why I want to know of your nature god. So tell me--who is Melandru?" 

And so he told her. It was a strange thing, explaining his faith from the ground up. Never had he been forced to start on the simple existence of the pantheon. Spurred on by his host's thirst for wisdom, he eventually found his stride, and went on to delve into scripture he had nearly forgotten himself. Of Ewan and the cursed tribe, who destroyed the land and were punished to become stewards of Melandru’s grace. Of the devout druids, who were blessed in her image and became spirits of her realm. Of the farmer who exacted revenge on a den of foxes for killing his livestock, only to be turned away by Melandru when wolves had taken his daughter. He spoke of blessings to recite and prayers to mend. His zeal, thumping away in his chest, traveled through his words and into the charr, who listened intently with both sets of ears. 

In return, Gwynn offered him a piece of her own faith. That they sing hymns and make art to express the blessings of nature, and to evoke it. She explained the importance of the place where they buried their dead called Skycavern, and how their ancestors were reunited in the afterlife. About how the memories of the deceased were stars to guide them in dark hours of grief and mourning. The Great Flood was an event that she very keenly described. The lessons they exchanged were identical--two sides of the same coin. 

Time had run away from them. Dhamon had thankfully hung his robes to dry at some point in the trance, as he most certainly didn't have the conscious thought to spare. Gwynn was a surprisingly skilled conversationalist compared to most charr he'd met, and their combined curiosity ran wild as their faiths met in the middle. At some point the sun had angled itself over the open hatch in her roof and started to inch across the wall. Soon it touched the ground, creeping along the planks and casting their beige color over the walls. Somebody had to drop in unexpectedly for their moment to finally end. 

"What a slacker! Gwynn!" Through the doorway came a male charr with a pair of noticeably sharp horns. The sunlight illuminated his dark brown fur until he stepped inside and the shade muddled his colors into darkness. "I knew you'd still be in here. Fraternizing with the outsider still, I see?" 

She blinked her one eye. "Yes. I am. Very astute of you, Dorran." 

"Well set it aside for another night! The other sandshifters need your guidance in preparation for tonight! Don't act like this is your first time leading the ritual." Like a pendulum's swing, the elder completely shifted gears when he turned towards Dhamon, his demeanor softening in an instant. "And nature favour you, human. I hope Gwynn hasn't been too overbearing. She has quite the fixation on outsiders, in case you couldn't tell." 

It suddenly became horribly apparent that he was still half-naked. Dhamon shot Dorran a smile and shoved the embarrassment into the back of his mind. "Not at all. She's been a wonderful host and teacher. I'm truly overjoyed to be here." 

The elder nodded. "Glad to hear it. Why don't you have a stroll around Atholma? Get to know the locals a little better. We may be a cautious sort at first, but our guests are treated as finely as we treat our own!" 

Gwynn reluctantly rose to follow elder Dorran out, but not before shooting the dervish a brief look. Friendly, but serious. "Like I said, you arriving was a complicated matter. This'll all have to wait until after the festival, but by the sun’s rise--it’ll happen. I promise." 

Nobody told him about the giant in the middle of town. 

The damn thing just waltzed down the cliff like it were a set of steps and sat down on the beach without a care. It scared Dhamon half to death. One of the villagers saw how the blood drained from his face and quickly stepped in. Kaarg the Gentle was apparently that giant's name. Big guy wouldn't hurt a fly, so long as that fly didn't happen to be a fish within arm's reach. It often descended from its home near the peak of the mountain to pester fisherman and relax in the sun. And thank Melandru for that. It was far too pleasant of a day to be stomped to death. 

Another thing he noticed was the abundance of a strange animal that the Olmakhan had domesticated. A massive creature not unlike the manta rays one can see flitting through the shallows of Lion's Arch, but swimming over land instead. The beasts were native to Elona and difficult to raise in colder climates, which is probably why he had never seen one before. 

They were called Skimmers. Great for riding. Incredible over water. Merely okay for hauling, which was unfortunately the task most of them were put to on such a busy day. A more docile one even allowed him to pet it for a while. It… seemed to like it? They weren't particularly expressive in a way he understood. Then again, neither were actual manta rays. 

He spent some time down in the markets despite his distinct lack of money. It was surprising that a secluded tribe like this had a market to begin with, and one that exchanged currency for goods at that. He was no economist by any stretch of the imagination, but there had to have been at least a couple hundred charr living in this place for money to have a use, right? Was that how it worked, or did they just trade goods anyway? The elonian trade vessels probably appreciated the habit. 

"Anything interest you, traveler?" one of the merchants called out to him, looking more bored than frugal. The charr was peddling pelts and skins--high quality stuff that would fetch a nasty price in Divinity's Reach, and would make a damn good cloak. But that was there, and this was here, and he was poor. 

"I'd be lying if I said otherwise, but these robes don't have pockets." 

"Well shucks." The charr clicked her tongue and reclined. "Oh well. It was worth a shot, anyway. You that outsider everyone's talking about? 'Course you are. It's not like there's any other outsiders that popped up overnight." 

He scratched the back of his head. "Talk of the town, huh? I never really liked being the center of attention." 

"Too bad. It's not every day we get visitors, and we let even less of them freely walk into Atholma. And when they do, it usually doesn't happen the night before a holiday. They say you're a sandshifter, too? Nature preserve us, you're probably going to be one of Gwynn's all-time favorites." 

"What makes everyone say that about her?" Dhamon asked. 

The merchant inclined her head. "Oh, I'm sure you've seen it already. She's totally obsessed with the outside world. Can't seem to just settle on the fact that we're better off how we are: alone. There was this one vessel that needed overnight repairs, so the crew settled down in Atholma for the night. She hounded this poor guy about his entire family history for close to four hours. And he was just a boring sailor. May the winds have pity on you, human, for she will not." 

"That's kinda what I was counting on, honestly." 

Snickering, the charr turned her gaze back to the sea. "You're a strange one, alright. You'll fit right in." 

As the sun began to set, the village started to converge on the docks. Scurrying groups of cubs would stare at the dervish as they passed, only to be swept back into the game when one of them took advantage of the lull to race ahead. With work done for the day, the adults who weren’t focused on the event were lounging about, typically in groups of three or four, just chatting the minutes away while basking in the warmth of the waning day. While most just gave him passing glances and continued on, a few of the friendlier charr invited him over for a spell. Admittedly, it was still fairly difficult to get used to the whole 'friendly charr' thing. Beasts heavier than oxen in muscle weight alone didn’t necessarily fit well with the word ‘inviting’, but it was a start. 

Above the constant chatter and the lapping of the waves came distant snippets of melodies and deep percussions. The sounds of instruments being tuned, strings being oiled, throats being cleared, and skills dusted off. He did notice a tune being carried almost subconsciously by the charr he wandered by. The same song, hummed or muttered with unintelligibly deep lyrics, could be heard from anywhere along the many wooden veins above the water. Something cheery with a bit of a quicker pace than the stuffy orchestras back at Divinity's Reach. It was a catchy little tune, for sure. Or maybe that was just him getting caught up in the energy. 

Dhamon hadn't wandered too long before someone else sought him out. It was a larger male, made even more so by the heft of his well-fed belly and broad shoulders. Despite his overwhelming size, the charr had an equally goofy smile and a pair of sheared horns. 

"There's the mysterious hunter!" he said in such a boisterous voice that it immediately made Dhamon the center of attention once more. "Thought I might catch you out here. You stick out like a broken claw, you know that?" 

He opened his mouth to say something, but the breath fell away once he got a better look at the charr. His fur was striped and reddish, but most of the red was matted blood and...grease? The male caught his staring and chuckled. 

"Ah. That. I forgot to wash up, didn't I? Nature bless you, I haven't introduced myself properly. The name's Sharl. I'm one of the best damn butchers this tribe has ever seen, and I happened to be the one that worked on the you-know-what that you killed. Kinda obvious, since none of us carry blades big enough to leave those kinds of wounds. And you did some damn fine work at that! Beautifully preserved the best parts, aside from the one leg you mangled, but three out of four's great in my books!" 

Others were looking now. Those that weren't, their ears twitched to the tune of the butcher's voice. Sharl's grin just got even wider as he spoke. "You know what they say! You never know what the future's gonna bring, right? Haha! I'd pat you on the back but, you know." He shrugged with his stained hands. "I'll see you at the feast! Hope you're hungry. This one's gonna be the best in years!" 

It felt like a mountain had just moved out of the way when Sharl left, a trail of blood droplets in his wake. The villagers lost interest in Dhamon's existence now that there was no chance of the secret meal slipping out. He got the feeling that this was a common occurrence around this time of year. 

The sky eventually took on the colors of a bright flame and tapered out into the beginnings of a starry night. It was the same time of day that he'd been found by Gwynn. The lax nature of the docks started to melt away, and in its place came a flighty anticipation. Tails swished back and forth. Laughing growls filled the air. The population out condensed even further to one side of the docks. There was hastier movement, weaving in between the growing crowds. He saw fans of leaves and glimpses of bright colors. Other than that, just walls of huge, jovial bodies. 

His eyes caught on black fur, dressed in that same colorful garb. It wasn't who he thought it was. Dhamon turned and started on his original path, but just before he could make his way into the sea of horns and claws, somebody stopped him. The same charr. 

"This is the best I look all year and you're just going to pretend you didn't see me?" 

Gwynn. The ceremonial robes she wore were loose and bright--emerald green fabrics painstakingly embroidered with intricate designs. The mantle she wore over her shoulders, made of woven reeds and brass ornaments, was so heavily enchanted that spools of cyan light would try to break away from the interlaced branches when she moved. Aside from those, a great deal of her fur was revealed, showing off the foggy transition between the dark overcoat and a grey midsection. Though his traitorous eyes traced over that part immediately, they were quickly stolen by the blaring blue and white paints that trailed over her body in a flowing pattern. The visual current led him to the artwork that adorned her face and encircled her eyes. Her eye. The paint almost tricked him into seeing one where there wasn't. 

"I'll take that stare for an apology," she chimed in her baritone. A claw went to adjust her braided mane, from which more brass ornaments hung. "I'll admit, those girls do some incredible work. They'll paint the years right off you if you let them. Though I'm not too happy that they've had to start painting the years off me at all." 

"It looks-..." His words left him. Even in just being polite, it was hard to say a charr looked beautiful, because he would've meant it. 

"The festival's going to start soon," she saved him from the pause. "There's a ritual we do to praise the coming seasons and our next harvest. The feast is most of where everyone's enthusiasm comes from, though. Can't say I blame them. I'd recommend slipping your way near the front. I think you'll like the ceremony." 

A small, circular island sat out on the edge of the docks. There were a handful of wooden structures on the outskirts, but for the most part it was barren and pure. The vegetation grew around a spiral pattern of barren dirt that encompassed most of the island. Many of the uniformed charr had gathered around the edges nearby the structures--bright splashes of color overtop the ambience of the twilight. There was an ensemble even deeper in the mix, manning hide drums or strange stringed instruments rather than staves. A hush had fallen over the normally boisterous crowd. The last of the sun dipped below the horizon. 

Five charr walked out into the center. Two of them had a bit of a hobble. One other walked with a non-magical staff that was actually being used for its intended purpose. All five were dressed to the nines in enchanted garb, their paint practically glowing as living twigs stuck out from their clothing and swayed in the wind. They took turns speaking of the winter behind them, the hardships it brought, and the warmer days that soon awaited them. 

The blessings went on all the while, but there was something in the air. Dhamon felt a prickling in his face, then on his fingers. He noticed that the lapping of the waves had stopped, and looked down between the boards to see that the currents were starting to shift. It wasn't just him. It was everywhere. 

The dervish was so distracted that it took until the music broke out for him to realize that the elders had stopped speaking. A heartbeat rhythm was pounded away on the smaller drums, backed by a steady march of bass percussion. As if responding to the music, the charged air started to blow in the direction of the spiral in the grass. The whole dock began to shake as a century-worth of charr stamped their feet to the beat. He would've been terrified that the whole structure might collapse had he already not been entranced by the display. 

Strings came in and delivered a haunting chord, to which the ensorcelled dancers began to move. Their hands dragged through a fabric of magic not unlike those he shrouded himself with, yet much, much bigger. The very sea surrounding the island churned in the same clockwise vortex as they dragged the energy. From their maws sprung a melody so deep that Dhamon had trouble understanding the words, but with every charr in the next mile joining in, the message was clear. The resounding vibration brought upon by the flood of voices joined in with the wild energies. 

A whirlpool surrounded the island, bashing at the supports of the docks and revealing a great stretch of land that was normally submerged. The gale only grew stronger, buffeting every onlooker that bore witness to the ritual. The single glance Dhamon shot skywards revealed that even the clouds, thin and scarce as they were, joined into the spiral. 

The dancers had formed into three respective groups that appeared to control these elements. Gwynn stood as the lead of the westernmost performers. While the others had more flowing routines, hers was harsh and disciplined. Wide-stanced, sweeping motions and sudden pauses in tune with the beat. 

Nothing about it was foreign. He could envision himself making the same movements, or feeling the same power running between his fingers, or mouthing the same words. The resistance to his push was his magic, and the weight to his pull was his faith. The lyrics that thrummed through his heart were the same as his heartfelt prayers. Their long strides might as well have been accompanied with a twirling scythe and a swathe of foes. Melandru herself couldn't help but be swayed by the ritual. 

It was the strangest thing. His eyes began to blur while he gazed at the prancing charr who had invited him in. He blinked at the howling winds only to find that he had started tearing up instead. Wiping at his face, he stared down at the wet stains on his sleeve, a blooming sensation stuck in his chest and at the bottom of his throat. There was the irony. It was these of all people of Tyria--a race which has devastated countless landscapes and nations alike--that he felt for the first time like he belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

Tranquility. 

Inhale. The rains come and nourish the ground. Roots carry up the moisture into the leaf. The leaf unfolds, fanning towards the sun to absorb its warmth. Exhale. 

Dhamon opened his eyes once more. His legs folded tightly beneath him, he extended his open palms to the patch of loose soil. In his mind, his fingers had carved ripples into the surface of a pond. The currents made from the disturbance were like the wind, and the particles of life began to stir. Seeds on the breeze, seeking out fertile lands to be born and to die on. He would make an oasis of opportunity in these still waters. 

The mound of dirt sputtered and churned as a small updraft carried the loose earth upwards. And yet, before the tiny cloud could solidify and be given form, the incantation caved in and dropped the soil back into place. His shoulders slumped at once. 

Meanwhile, across the patch from him, Gwynn straightened her arms and made the same motions, her lips breathlessly repeating the same mantra. The soil readily obeyed her command and jumped to attention at once. Magical energy poured from the puny construct in the form of a white mist. First came a crude pair of arms and legs, then the hunched torso as those limbs grew the slivers of claws. An elemental in the shape of a charr rose from the pile. Then, as Gwynn exhaled, the effigy collapsed and became one with the earth once more. She opened her silver eye to the dervish. 

"Nature, in both a magical and a physical sense, is an opportunist. Just as the fox scours the plains for the rabbit's den, the inorganic will seek out life. It is the settled material at the bottom of the pond--the state which all things seek. With a nudge from your will to pierce the veil, nature will claim your energy as essence and take the form you so desire it to." 

Dhamon nodded slowly, leaving his meditation to scratch the back of his head. "Yes. I know. I will get the hang of it eventually. It's just difficult to envision the place it's coming from. I'm not particularly used to Melandru not being the medium between me and her grace." 

The stern expression on the charr's face melted away. "Well don't get strung out about it. I doubt even your master knew how to do this. Besides, I've taught cubs who got stuck for months on just making the sand on the beach dance. You're starting from a strong point." 

"Is that so?" he scoffed. "This morning I saw a handful of children summoning man-sized elementals and using them as mounts to joust at one another with large sticks." 

"Some of us are rather talented. We were born into this art. You clawed at it from the cold, dead hands of history." 

"Geez. My master's not that old." Stretching out the muscles in his coiled legs, Dhamon pushed to a kneel. The sunlight filtered down through the swaying baobab trees and warmed mostly his left side. The salty tinge to the air was offset by the wonderful smell of the soil they'd upturned for this exercise. Honestly, he probably would've become a farmer in another life. It was a simple path, but not one without its rewards. 

"Maybe these lessons will sink in overnight. Perhaps it's time we try something different?" Dhamon suggested. "I said I would return the favor by sharing some of my own techniques. This is supposed to be an equal exchange, after all." 

She shot him a toothy grin. "I thought you'd never ask. Where shall we start?" 

The correct answer was 'on their feet'. The dervish was glad to be up and about after spending the better part of the morning in a meditative posture. He snatched his polearm up from the tree it was leaned on and experimentally swung its weight around. His hands felt empty without it, his arms too light. Gwynn, on the other hand, held her shamanic staff with relative indifference. 

"How do you handle such a cumbersome weapon?" she asked, holding her staff the same way he held his glaive and shaking her head. "It has the reach of a spear, but you must swing it like a blade. The dexterity of a sword is lost, yet it does not control space. I don't know. I'm no earthstalker, I have little knowledge of these things." 

He twirled the glaive as effortlessly as a baton and readied it in his right hand. "No, you're correct. This is a guard's weapon, not a warrior's. In fact, the original dervishes were farmers and travelers. Their only means of defending themselves were their scythes and walking sticks. These humble tools would become man's most pious weapons. I would have had a scythe, but the art of smithing ones for battle rather than for harvest has long since been lost. Besides, I prefer this design. It reminds me of a crescent moon." 

"How very romantic. The humble tools your people used, I mean. Not your strange hunk of metal." 

"Tch. You wanna learn how I was taught to channel the gods or not?" 

It started the same as all their exercises did: with prayer. Nothing fancy, just some hymns to get the wind blowing. All that meditation made it exceedingly easy for him to harness the nature around him. Soon the whole grove was abuzz with untapped energy, flitting past their ears and tingling in their fingers. Dhamon wondered if Melandru had always been watching the Olmakhan, or if they had something that went beyond even Her will altogether. It didn't matter, he thought to himself. Melandru was not a selfish god. So long as they lived in harmony with nature, nature would favor them in return. 

Speaking of selfish... 

"To be a dervish is to be selfish in selflessness. I've noticed that the Olmakhan direct their faith away from themselves. You give your power to the earth that you so worship, and it serves you in turn. As a dervish, I am the conduit through which nature does its bidding, for I serve as the voice of the gods." 

Even just saying the words surrounded him in an aura of power. The black charr channeled the same energy in a lesser capacity, their vortices intersecting and forming a convection current between the two of them. Dhamon chuckled silently to himself. He hadn't done something like this since he was still learning how to control the elements. 

"See? You're already further ahead than I am," he mused, reading his glaive in both hands. "Blades and spears plenty good at enforcing your philosophies, but an enchanted staff works just as well for what I do. Consider the spell we've woven over ourselves. Consider it a kind of fabric, like a cobweb hanging in the corner. There is a great deal of force behind it, isn't there? But it's all spread out in the dust and wind, and condensing it would take more effort than it's worth. How can we harness the might of nature without strong-arming it into doing our bidding?" 

Gwynn tilted her head. "Our cumbersome weapons, I presume?" 

He pulled his polearm back, slowly sliding his hand further up the hilt in the motion. The air currents broke formation and swelled around his blade instead. A flash of light brandished the steel as he swung at nothing, the very force emitted enough to send a whirlwind crashing through the nearby trees and jostling every leaf within earshot. The branches settled, the magic dispersed, and all became silent once more. 

"Of course," he finally replied, then switched his grip on the glaive into a more defensive central position. "It's simply a matter of changing the state of the spell. The transition between seasons, if you want to think of it more spiritually. You can raise an earthen elemental out of thin air, so I'm thinking it should be fairly simple to convert an enchantment into force. Come on, try it on me." 

Her brow raised. "Try it ON you? You want me to attack you?" He nodded. She shook her head, but took stance anyway. "Don't think that this staff isn't powerful in my hands just because it lacks a blade. I am still a charr, and you are still a human." 

Mimicking the same motions as him, Gwynn attempted to gather the swirling energies into her weapon, muttering a chant below her breath. In one terrifying swoop, she lifted the staff over her head and lunged, snarling the last word of her incantation. Having been on the receiving end of a charging charr in the past, Dhamon held his ground like he held his hilt to block the strike. 

A single syllable left his mouth in just the right way with just the right context. The blow, which would've surely at least knocked him to the ground, was instantly repelled by a sudden blast of wind. The charr yelped, barely hanging onto her own staff as she was tossed backwards. 

"What the-!" she stammered. "How did you do that? It was so fast, I didn't even see you say anything!" 

Dhamon smirked, brushing off his robes. "An empowered strike would've broken through that barrier. You blew the winds at me rather than infusing them into your attack. I know that the tailwind gives the impression of a stronger blow, but it pales in comparison to the proper thing. Don't get too strung out about it. You're starting from a strong point." 

"Oh." Tail whipping behind her, she lowered her stance and redoubled her grip on the staff. "In that case, why don't I take another shot or twenty at it?" 

It was nineteen too much. 

The same bed of dirt that had refused to rise at Dhamon's command was now his bed for resting. The bruises weren't as bad as the fatigue, but it was the combination of the two that really kept him laid out. It was one thing to practice these kinds of exercises against another human. The rules weren't quite the same while doing so with an experienced, fully grown charr. 

Sucking in as deep a breath as he could, the dervish clenched his teeth and lurched into a sitting position. It was like all those times where he wished for a worthy sparring partner had bounced back and smacked him in the shoulders eight or nine times. 

Not that Gwynn was in a much better position. Unharmed, sure, but she didn't have the kind of stamina training that Dhamon did when it came to maintaining and invoking Melandru's blessings. Sloped onto a tree's trunk, she glanced over to him with a pleading look. 

"I think I went overboard," she muttered. 

"Mhm. Yeah." 

"Do you- Do you need any help? I'm no lifebinder, but I know a few of their spells. I could technically-" 

He interrupted her with a grunt, pushing to a stand with the help of his polearm. "No, no. I'm good. I've gotten worse beatings while training in the past. Hell, I've gotten worse beatings from charr in the past, too. Nothing a good night's rest and a long walk can't work off." 

After a bit of effort, she managed to get on her feet as well, still huffing for breath. "I can tell. You fight with the force of a maelstrom. And your technique is brutally potent. I might even go as far as to say that it would intimidate the others." 

"Really?" he said. "Intimidate a charr? How so?" 

"It perverts nature and twists it into your own power. If they knew how it worked, some might not understand. There are those who consider our spells to be sacred and untouchable--that the prospect of utilizing the magic in different ways is disrespectful to nature. Elder Gawr, for one." 

Dhamon rested his weight on his glaive. "Perhaps. But it is a just use, is it not? What could be more just than the will to protect your faith and your ideals?" 

"A peaceful resolution," she said in monotone. 

"...Yeah. I suppose that is more just, isn't it?" He stroked at his beard, finally having caught his breath. "Still. There's more to might than just senseless violence. This world isn't one where you can rely on diplomacy. Your enemies won't always be a handshake away from a truce. There will be times when you have to fight back. Though, I suppose that sounds a little rich, coming from a human to an Olmakhan." 

Gwynn pursed her lips. She looked off into the distance, contemplating something for a long moment, before turning back to him with a solemn expression. "I think I need to show you something. You don't mind having to go the long way around back to Atholma, do you?" 

"Uh. No, I guess not. What is it?" 

Without another word, she led him off into the forest with a tight-lipped silence about her. He hauled his tired body onwards and followed as best he could, immediately beset by nettle grass and vertical drops that hardly phased the charr. The comfortable solid ground of the baobabs gave way to more swamp. There were already flies buzzing around his head by the time they scaled the rocky cliffs down to sea level. What was this all of a sudden? Why the urgency? 

It was a long, mildly agonizing walk. They must've crossed the better part of the island before Gwynn finally crouched down in the bushes and gestured for him to halt. She brought a finger to her mouth, then beckoned him over slowly. Drawing his glaive to lower his profile--and for protection--Dhamon followed her lead through a small thicket and onto the summit of a hill. He squinted through the scratching branches until the vegetation opened up on the other side. 

Dajkah was split into parts by a canal that ran out into the sea. Beyond the waterway, a section of island mired in just as much marsh and sheer cliff as what they'd just waded through. And something very, very peculiar. 

The beginnings of a massive structure stuck out of the horizon, its blocky metal parts sleek and dark. The construction was nothing more than a few walls, a quarry with its resulting pile of slag, and the bottom of some geometric shape, but the architecture stood out to him almost immediately. That wasn't even to mention the dozen golems scurrying about the site, making it all the more obvious. 

"These imp-creatures came to our island several seasons ago," Gwynn went on to say in a hushed tone. 

"Asura," he replied. "Yeah, I recognize them." 

"You know of them? From where?" 

Dhamon settled on his knees. "They're a race that lives in the far west. I haven't met too many myself, but I know of their penchant for trouble. This looks like a huge operation, too. Reminds me of how they describe their capital city. Oh gods, is that supposed to be a city?" 

"There is a forward camp they established further up the beach," she said. "They were running some sort of test there. Expanding. Desecrating. We tried to greet them--to reason with them--but they threatened to sic their metal elementals on us. Our pleas have yet to be met with any sort of compliance. You were saying that there would be times when we had to fight back. I am beginning to fear that one of those times may be approaching." 

"How long has there been asura on this island? Several seasons, you said? Not quite a year, then?" To her nod, he let out an exasperated sigh. "I feel like it would have been big news if there was another city being built, and I was in Lion's Arch for a decent while before leaving for this place. The fact that they're not listening to reason makes me suspicious. I've heard that there was a massive faction of lawless asura that operate in secret. Everyone has, really. Most unnatural disasters are caused by them." 

She leaned forward. "You believe that these imps may be a part of that group?" 

Rolling his shoulders, Dhamon motioned to stand in the weeds. "Only one way to find out." 

"What are you doing?!" Gwynn immediately grabbed at his arm and yanked him back down into cover. 

"What do you think I'm doing? I was going to go speak with the forward camp." 

"It doesn't make a difference whether they're this lawless faction or not! We have tried everything with this camp, and our only reward was a threat to our lives! That much is fact!" Ears flattened back, the charr forced herself to calm down, her good eye scanning the distant facility instead. "The elders do not want anyone to interact with these 'asura' any longer. It's too dangerous. Yet I feel that if we don't stop them somehow, they will continue to take and take until there is nothing left for us and they have destroyed this island. They have been passive in recent days, but it's temporary. I know it is." 

"Then we must be proactive," Dhamon said. 

She shook her head. "No. We cannot act without the permission of the elders. It would be suicide to act without the support, anyway. Our only choice is to try to make peace again another time. So we ignore the problem." 

Despite her urgency, the dervish stood up. He strapped his glaive back into place on his back and turned back down the hill. "You wouldn't have shown me this if you didn't believe that something had to change. But you're right. Just the two of us wouldn't be able to storm an Inquest camp. I don't even know how their golems work." 

Gwynn motioned to follow him, but quickly overtook him in the dense underbrush. Her pensive expression was nearly hidden behind a fog of reeds. "I just thought you should know. Our life here is not as perfect as it seems. I know you offered yourself to our aid when you asked for permission into Atholma, and if push ever comes to shove, this will likely be what 'aid' will entail." 

"Then you'll have my blade." Pressing through the mud and insects, Dhamon grit his teeth. "By Melandru's great wilderness, you'll have it. Know that this is what I spent the last ten years of my life for. I am not afraid." 

A shrill sound bounced from the partial wooden walls of the tent-like structure before escaping out the layered fabric roof. Again. And again. The repetition was hypnotic, in spite of the ache in Dhamon's shoulder. Readjusting his position, he pressed the edge of his blade down, glanced back to make sure the hilt hadn't knocked into anything, then went on to continue the motion over the whetstone. The edge of the crescent moon shined as the wind picked up and pulled holes in the ceiling for the setting sun to gleam through. This sound was addictive. He could've done this all night and not minded at all. 

Luckily, a distraction came by so that he wouldn't have to do that. A muscular female charr with brown fur muddled with bright spots. Her jagged horns poked through the door before she ever did, followed by the two massive barrels of water beneath her arms that she'd hauled all the way here. Grunting, she set the cargo beside her kiln, which was simply a deep horizontal hole and chimney carved out of the adjacent mountainside. She brushed back her mane and huffed. 

"Whew! Hate that part. Would rather sit in this furnace of a room for three hours than have to do that twice in a day." 

Dhamon lifted his weapon from the stone, regarded the edge in a passing beam of light, then smiled. "Thank you again for letting me use your workshop. She was getting a little too dull for my liking." 

"Nature bless you, friend. I'm not about to let a single dagger, sword, or knife in all of the village go soft. That certainly includes that beautifully-crafted spear you've got there. Oh the things I would do with the amount of mithril they put into the headpiece of that thing. She have a name, then?" 

“Oh, not really. I think it’s a little more mysterious that way. I’ve considered a few, though.” 

There was more commotion outside the draped curtain doorway as Dhamon went to oil and finish. A heated conversation between a pair of deep voices--One male, one female. He was getting disconcertingly good at telling genders apart. 

"Mother!" the male shouted as he barged in past the canvas. After wracking his mind a bit, the Dervish recalled that this was one of the charr in the hunting party. The one that most objected to his presence. Senn, was it? 

"Mother, I need to know. Is my new blade ready yet? I can't keep practicing with these reject hunks of metal! If the weight isn't right then there's no point!" 

In came the female. Shorter, and much more slender, but the same grade of brown as the other two charr in the room. She looked like an adolescent cub still growing out into the beast she was born to be. "Perhaps if you didn't try to slice at rocks, you'd have an easier time maintaining your sword. You're a stump of a charr." 

"Don't call me a stump you fat marmox! I'm not letting you get away with the time you snapped your bow over your friend's head!" 

The blacksmith bared her fangs. "If you two want dinner then you'll behave yourselves! I'll get started on your sword as soon as you stop bugging me! What do you think I've been trying to do all afternoon?" 

Senn finally noticed the human in the room. A grimace already stuck to his face, he simply directed its energy towards him instead. "Outsider." 

Her back turned, the mother spoke up once more. "And behave yourself around our guest, Senn!" 

"Why should I? Trusting outsiders has never brought us anything of value. It's a waste of effort." 

His sister flicked him on the shoulder. "It brings you that iron you need for your broken-ass blade. Or did you want to go digging around in the earth and tear apart its insides for it yourself?" 

"It's alright," Dhamon said, wiping the last of the excess off his blade and restrapping the hilt to his back. He brushed past the male on his way out of the smithy, giving a single nod as he passed. "I get it. Better safe than sorry. I wouldn't trust me right away, either. I pray that I might be able to change that someday." 

The curtain fell to a close behind him. His tired feet carried him along the cliffside path while the fading light half-blinded him. Ever since the festival, Atholma had become considerably quieter. There were less boisterous conversations for the wind to carry over. Less excitement in the faces of the villagers. Fishermen dragged their feet as they sorted out their nets and carried their profits home. Markets closed down early from lack of business. The atmosphere was entirely different to how it was before. For the first time since his arrival, he felt the weight that burdened this place, and now he knew its source. 

On his way back to the humble shack that he happened to call home, someone called out to him. 

"Dhamon!" Gwynn stuck her head out from behind the cloth. "Before you settle down for the night, would you like to drop by for a spell? Figured I could repay you with dinner for the practice today." 

He noticed the trail of smoke that billowed from the hatch of the hut and felt a repressed pang of hunger rear its ugly head in his gut. He had nearly forgotten how wonderful hot, fresh food was until that feast the other night. It didn't matter how much discipline he had, this was an impossible offer to turn down. 

No matter how dreary it felt outside, the inside of this tiny house always felt welcome. In spite of its starkness, that is. The space beneath the hatch was occupied by a small furnace, where a crude filet cod was being prepared over an open flame. A huge bowl nearby filled to the brim with seared fish was nearby, and beside that bowl was one filled with a good deal of grilled garnishes. The aroma wasn't quite as enticing as whole roasted Siamoth, but the krytan blood in his veins was still ravenous for seafood. 

"Yeah. Carrots," Gwynn said as she went over to check the progress of the current filet. "I know you're probably sick of carrots. But you've seen for yourself how much we still have to get through. The second thing we even teach our children is to not waste nature's gifts." 

He chuckled and set himself and his weapon down off to the side. "You kidding? My mother would slap me into the next century if she heard that I complained about someone else's cooking for me. She's a fairly devout priestess, I'm sure she would catch wind of it somehow." 

"Hah. My mother's already with the stars. I know that I'm in for an earful when I finally join her. It's been years, but when a random noise sounds like she's calling my name the fur on my neck still stands on end." 

"Rocky relationship?" he inquired. 

The charr hummed in refutation, her hands preparing a square wooden plate for him. "Not quite. Just strict. She was one of the council of elders before her passing. Some say she was the strongest sandshifter since Olma herself. Could've upturned a beach with nothing but a scepter if you pissed her off enough. Pounded lesson after lesson into my head, then one day her body just suddenly failed. She lived a long life, after all." 

Dhamon held the plate in his lap and resisted the tempting scents to shoot a scowl at the ground. "Now you're making me anxious. Last time I saw my parents was when I left for this very pilgrimage. Father wasn't doing too well with that back of his. I hope he's gotten better." 

"I'm sure he has. Your gods seem to take good care of their followers." Gwynn sat down across from him with a plate stacked three times the size of his. A satisfied huff left her nose. "Nature be praised for this bounty." 

He muttered the same phrase and dug in. Conversation fell by the wayside as excellent cooking took the stage. Not only did the Olmakhan have a rich palette when it came to the meat-guzzling race of creatures they came from, but they also seemed to grow their own herbs and spices to add to the mix, and Gwynn was clearly not a beginner in regards to the art. That being said, charr didn't seem to care as much about the thin bones between the succulent, tender flesh of a fish, so that was something he ended up having to watch out for. Not that it did much to deter him. 

"You know," he started to say between picking slivers from his cut. "I don't know why it took me this long to notice, but the Olmakhan have families, don't they?" 

Gwynn practically inhaled the tail of a halibut before responding. "Instead of warbands and fahrars? Yes, we do. We keep an extensive history of the past we came from as a reminder of what we are now. Have you visited the scribes yet, actually? I think I forgot to show them to you." 

"But what about your family?" he asked. To her confused stare in the interim of a drink of water, he pressed on. "I mean, your kids. Do you have a family here?" 

"Oh." Gwynn rolled her one silver eye. "Merciful gales, speaking of my mother. No, I haven't started a family with anyone yet. Had a few mates for fun here and there, but the fun quickly died out when I was suddenly responsible for the next generation of snotty sandshifters. Nobody ever really stuck. Now I basically don't have time to raise everybody else's cubs, let alone deal with a litter of my own." 

He raised his eyebrows. "Hm. Busy life out here, huh?" 

"Well if you're gonna be prodding me like that, what about you? Haven't you had a mate before?" 

Son of a bitch. He walked right into that one like a Sylvari entered a salad bar. 

"I mean, if you must know," he began with a thoughtful gulp of carrot chunks. "Had a sweetheart when my parents sent me off to Divinity's Reach for school. That's like a farhar for humans, by the way. Didn't keep in touch once I graduated but I did get some tail." That was the worst fucking choice of words. "And, um. After that's about when I started training with my master. There aren't many women to choose from once you become a reclusive monk out in the Queensdale countryside, I can tell you that much. Nothing after that." 

She shot him a smirk. "Not so easy now, is it?" 

"I could get some if I really wanted. The damsels dig stoic warrior-priests, you know." 

"Yeah I bet they do." 

Thankful that he'd just dodged a warband's worth of bullets, Dhamon went on to finish his meal and wrap up before he said something else stupid. The conversation wrapped back around to the training from this morning, which he appreciated on several levels. However, the topic just brought back around thoughts on what he had seen afterwards. The Inquest facility. It must've been written all over his face because Gwynn mirrored the expression right back at him. 

"Something wrong?" 

The dervish smiled and placed his plate onto the pile where most of the dishes seemed to end up. "Nah. Thank you for the meal. It was incredible, aside from the bits humans can't really eat. Even then if I had the working parts I'd probably just love it more." 

She didn't buy it. It was clear to see on her face. Even so, she dismissed him with a blink. "You're welcome, then. Come to me if you need anything. Have a good night." 

Dhamon retrieved his polearm and ducked through the curtain into the chilled night air. A sigh in his throat, he started towards his temporary home and prayed that sleep would claim him before his idle thoughts did.


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of running water carried over the distance, echoing off the vertical faces of stone and moss from seemingly every other direction. The air down here was cool and humid--a stark contrast to the searing temperature not ten feet above his head at the top of this miniature canyon, where the glaring sunlight struck white rock and bounced down into Dhamon's eyes. His fingers trailed along the lush vegetation on the walls and gently clutched at the fern leaves he walked past. He didn't even have to meditate to get a good feel for this place. It was already teeming with Melandru's resonant blessings. 

Gwynn followed shortly after him, mumbling a short prayer as she pressed deeper into the magnificent scenery. She didn't seem as reverent as just relieved to find the place to be the same way that she left it. 

After a few boulders to scale, the corridor opened up onto the other side of the mountain. A stream ran down the side of the gravel bed and emptied out over a small waterfall into a basin. The water was clear as the sky, allowing full view of the earthy rainbow of pebbles and agates that littered its bottom. Even here, in the open with a partial view of the ocean in the distance, there were enough trees to shroud the whole area in a comfortable shade. 

"This is amazing," the dervish breathily put. 

"I know," Gwynn replied in a nonchalant tone. "I don't tell the others about this place often. I come here to reflect sometimes. It is excellent for meditation, though I'm sure I don't need to tell you. That's why I have taken our training here." 

"Psh. No kidding." 

Dhamon knelt down to push his hand into the waterfall. The water felt fairly frigid at first, but it had clearly been warmed by the glow of the sun on its way down. He played around as the falling pressure pushed on his wrist and splashed at his face. The basin itself was just as clean, the water being regularly cycled as it split off into two more streams and continued down the mountain. The calls of a hawk circling nearby stood out above the soft babbling. 

"I wish I knew someplace like this back in Kryta," he went on to say. "The mountains there aren't nearly as peaceful, though. We-" 

He turned to the shuffling sounds made by the charr and went silent. Gwynn had already undone the sash that held her tanned hide clothing in place and was in the process of stripping the last article of it from her body. She tossed her clothes onto the curve of a nearby stone and started to stretch, taking Dhamon's uncontrolled eyes on a trip along the gradient of black and grey that lead to patches of fur he was never meant to see. 

"What?" He twisted away and went back to glaring at the waterfall, the rising heat in his face battling with the cool air. "What are you- Gods, why are you stripping down?" 

"Hm? Because of the training," Gwynn said. "I was going to teach you the skills of a lifebinder. You probably ought to remove your robes, too, unless you'd like to remove even more stains from them instead." 

"What does that have to do with the training?" 

She hummed inquisitively. The sound of metal leaving a leather sheath must've been that dagger she brought. "Because you can't reliably teach the techniques of a lifebinder if you're not binding any wounds together? Blood is an awful thing to have to wash out of fur and cloth. That's also why we're beside a running body of water. What's there not to understand?" 

A bubble of hysterics caught at the bottom of his throat. The dervish shook his head and took a seat on the spot, settling down on a cushion of moss and shaking his head. "Fine. That makes sense, yeah. But could you at least wear...I don't know, something? Surely washing a single cloth wouldn't be such a terrible fate?" 

"Oh? Why would- Oh." 

One of the most painful pauses in Dhamon's life up until this point passed before the charr broke out into a fit of laughter. He simply leaned his head back and huffed at the sky, face stuck in a permanent blushing scowl. The image was stuck in his head, too. The way her harsher colors blended in with her soft, tracing...Oh shut the fuck up you've seen a naked charr before you know what they look like. 

"You know, I'm-" Gwynn managed to say once her chuckling started to die down. "I'm kind of flattered, honestly. It's a compliment that you would think of me in the same vein as a human woman. Or are you just trying too hard to be well-mannered?" 

"Just put something on already." 

She relented after one last bout of laughter and replaced her loincloth. It was...suboptimal, but at least he didn't feel like his head was about to pop. He felt comfortable enough to remove most of his own robes. After all, she was right. He wasn’t about to deep clean his robes a second time if he could avoid it. 

Dipping into the waist-deep water helped clear his head a great deal, the shock of it ripping up his spine and knocking the embarrassment straight out of his skull. He certainly didn't feel particularly in-tune with nature anymore, though. 

There was an energized gust that whisked through the trees and washed over him. When Gwynn went to walk into the basin, her feet didn't immediately plummet to the bottom, but instead stood on the surface of the water. After a few seconds, she finally allowed it to swallow her legs and sunk to the bottom with a heavy thump. She exhaled, and with the breath went the tingling sensation of the spell. 

"I've never seen that one," Dhamon commented with genuine wonder in his voice. "That seems pretty damn useful. When will you be teaching me how to do that?" 

"Later." The charr regarded the steel dagger with her spotlight eye before setting it to the wayside. She brought her hands together and sucked in another ruminative breath through her nose. "This will be training for the both of us. It requires our undivided concentration, and for nature to be cooperative." 

His body eventually adjusted to the temperature. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he concentrated on the current that rushed around him. A stone in the river. Again, he let the pressure swell around his hands, only putting up enough resistance to remain motionless. His tongue wordlessly recited a prayer as the world seemed to fade into the background. In spite of the distraction, he felt that Melandru's cradling hands surrounded this scenic vista, protecting it from the harsh reality of her realm. A place of peace and respite. A place of healing. 

"A lifebinder practices the most finessed side of nature's boons. The art of mending," Gwynn started to say, her calmest voice melding almost too well with the running water. "Elder Gawr would be the foremost expert on that, but I've dabbled enough to know how intricate it is. Nature is cyclical. It heals naturally, over some magnitude of time. Even the scarred Ascalon eventually found its red irises once more. We may not be able to manipulate the passage of time, but we can incite the processes in which nature mends itself." 

As an example, the charr waded over to where a bushel of ferns extended over the surface of the water. She took the end of one of its wide leaves and used her dagger to slice across the fragile matter, severing it from the main plant. She lifted the part away for him to see, then held it close to the wound she had made. A quiet hymn spilled past her lips, and though it was too deep for anything but a charr's lower set of ears to pick up, a slight glow had enveloped the leaf. Her razor claws graced the surface of the plant with an incredible degree of care and kindness, and it was just as she had never touched it in the first place. There wasn't even a mark where her blade had once cut. 

The baton--and the severed plant--was soon tossed to him. Unlike conjuring an elemental from scratch, this spell seemed to come much more naturally to him. Though his master never taught him any sort of specifically restorative magicks, Dhamon found several ways to apply parts of incantations he already knew to this task. The first couple of times left the reconnected leaf only partially so. After that, he started to leave only traces of damage behind. It was more simple than he could have ever imagined to infuse his faith into another living thing--so simple that he wondered how it was he hadn't already figured it out. 

Gwynn must've picked up on his confident expression. "Repetition makes it easier, but so does the subject. I can see that healing simple plant life isn't much of a challenge for you. That's good. We can move on to the real work now." 

This time, the steel dagger was lifted to be drawn across the palm of the charr's opposite hand. Her face twitched at the pain, but went still as she held the wound out to the dervish, a fresh tide of blood rushing to the surface and dripping from her finger. 

"You didn't have to-" Dhamon started. "I have more experience using spells on myself. You didn't have to cut your own hand." 

"It's my duty as a tutor, actually. I got used to it a long time ago. Now, use the same spell to mend my skin. You'll find that it's much more difficult on living flesh than it is on plant matter." 

Dhamon exhaled and reached out to take her hand. The bladed paw eclipsed his own in both size and strength, yet was receptive to his touch as he held her by the knuckles and motioned his other hand over the wound. 

She was right. The same prayer which readily healed the fern barely seemed to affect the rough padding of skin. After several attempts with no improvement, he tried to force the magic to do his bidding. The light intensified slightly, but the charr's fingers recoiled as she suppressed a grunt. Dhamon immediately pulled away. The cut was partially closed, but only with what appeared to be fresh scar tissue. 

"You're fine," she said to him, breathing through her teeth as she took the blade and reopened the wound. The blood had started to fog up the water. "Do not rush. Nature can be fickle with its energies. Healing is a thing of consistency. Be persistent, and it will respect your will." 

If Melandru was listening, she was hesitant to respond to his plea. This spell was beginning to drag on for far too long. He could hear the individual droplets of her blood hitting the water over an endless orchestra of babbling sounds and rustling branches. It was getting tiring. Even so, he redoubled his efforts and cupped his palm over hers, dropping his repeated mantra only when he inhaled. He lifted away, and all that was left was the stained skin where the cut once was. 

Clenching an experimental fist, Gwynn gave a nod. "Just like that. Easy, isn't it?" 

"No," he chuckled with a sigh, letting his tired arms fall and hit the water. 

"That's precisely why we have ways of making it easier." She brandished the blade and showed him the opposite flat of the steel. There was a complicated symbol carved into the metal, which upon closer inspection was a summary of an Olmakhan hymn condensed into a single shape. "Using your own vitality and energy to facilitate natural healing is powerful, but immensely inefficient in untrained hands. Beginners tend to channel through tools like this." 

"Haha! A signet!" Dhamon quickly answered, perking up in an instant. "I don't think I've ever seen one like this. To be fair, I haven't seen many up close at all. I'm aware that they're essentially a stored spell, though I never would've thought that a magic like ours could be placed into one..." 

She smirked, sliced open her own hand once more, then motioned to hand him the hilt of the dagger. "Then I don't need to explain what it is or how to use it." 

"You know I really wouldn't mind if you cut me instead. I might prefer it if I'm being perfectly honest." 

At this point, with how exhausted he was getting, Dhamon was almost certain that it would still be difficult to mend her wound even with this tool. Turns out that the Olmakhan must've stumbled upon some great wisdom in their practices. The signet worked like a charm, dressing the cut in a warm light and closing the skin on his first try. The second time worked just as well as the first. He felt like a priest of Dwayna with how easy it was. That being said, after another attempt without the blade, he definitely knew to appreciate the help. 

"I wish everyone I taught could catch onto these concepts as quickly as you do," Gwynn shot him a smile. "I hope you were serious about that offer. It's better to learn using a partner than simply wounding myself." 

He readily extended his arm and handed the dagger back in the same movement. "Be my guest. I need a break, anyway." 

Having his palm sliced open was far from what he'd call pleasant, but to Gwynn's credit the edge was beautifully sharpened, pulling only a wince from him whenever she did it. Moreover, she was far more skilled than he was at using these magicks, and typically fixed him up within one or two attempts even without the signet. 

While he was bombarded with moderate stinging pains and soothing warmths one after another, he found that the most distracting aspect was still how large her hand was compared to his own. Seriously, her claw was brushing all the way up his forearm. She could smother his whole face if she wanted. 

That wouldn't be so bad. 

Shut the fuck up. 

"That scar." 

Dhamon snapped to attention. "Huh? What scar?" 

"The nasty one on your shoulder there. Where's it from?" 

He quizzically glanced over at his side, only to realize that the faded impressions of Maeve's fangs from years ago were perfectly visible. It had been such an afterthought by this point that he forgot they had left scars at all. A dumbstruck expression crossed his face as he attempted to weave a story on the spot. 

"Skale," was what he decided on. "It's from a skale attack a while ago. Didn't see it coming until it was already on top of me. It was just defending territory, so I managed to get off with just the one bite, but it got infected and healed up poorly." 

Her ears twitched. "Doesn't look like the bite of any skale I've seen." 

"Shit. Did I say skale? I meant drake, actually. We have a lot of both up near Kryta. Right, skale attack in groups. This was just a single drake. Probably defending its nest or something." 

"Ah. The thoughtful kiss of nature. You're lucky the infection didn't spread to your heart with an injury like that." 

He winced from the blade passing over his palm. "Oh, not if my mother's temple had anything to say about it. Those monks were on me like bees on a hive. It's far from the worst thing that could've happened to me. I still have both my eyes, for one." 

"Haha." Gwynn rolled her one eye. "I was still just a cub when I lost it. Was fooling around with a friend of mine, playing with her father's things while he was out in the farms. She swore up and down that she could pin me to a tree by the hem of my shirt with a single arrow." 

Dhamon scoffed. "You believed her, huh?" 

"She really could. I'd seen her do it to someone else. The problem was that she was using her father's bow." The charr went on to mutter a brief prayer over his hand and repaired it without a second thought. "Perhaps we should wrap this up for now. It's starting to get late, and I'd rather us not lose so much blood that we can't safely make it back down the mountain." 

"Has it really been that long? You've been perfect at closing the wound before I really felt it." 

Gwynn gestured her head to shore. "Then walk back." 

Even attempting to move from the spot he'd been standing brought forth a debilitating wave of vertigo. Dhamon stumbled through the basin, tripping over himself and splashing up to his neck, making it to the gravel shore with a sputtering cough. The charr took a much slower approach and made it back without much problem at all, though she did seem to sway a bit. 

"You underestimated how much energy we used doing that. That healing magic is tied directly to our own vitality, you know." 

Those same giant talons that could tear an animal in two gingerly helped the dervish to his feet. He dizzily spun around as he regained his footing, shivering. Gwynn's fur, weighed down and sopping wet, made streaks down her surprisingly slender form. Even with that cloth on, her body still- 

He swung himself around and lumbered towards his own pile of clothes. "Sweet Melandru you're right. I'm really craving some red meat now." 

"Then why don't we have some for supper? Sharl got his hands on some very fine cuts today. He was telling me about it in detail for at least half an hour, but I didn't listen for long enough to hear what it was. I'm sure we'll just have to put up with whatever he's got, anyway."


	5. Chapter 5

A ship pulled into the docks not too long after sunrise. The vessel was clearly fitted for mercantile purposes, seemingly carrying more cargo than crew or armament. From afar, its banner flew high and proud against the morning's light--a bold statement of crimson tinged with an outline of gold and a three-pointed spiral-like design of the same color. A brief chat with a nearby Olmakhan merchant who was preparing his goods confirmed that the ship had come from Amnoon--a free elonian city right on the edge of Joko's dominion. They were Atholma's most common trade partners, and it was high time that they showed up again. 

The elonians had stationed out near the farthest island, setting anchor and dropping their gangplank on a dead end of the pier. Dhamon could see the heads of the crew shoot below deck and pop back out again with crates in-hand. The requisitioner stood frozen with a constant hunch as they scribbled away at their inventory sheet. Likewise, apart from the lines of charr merchants that had already formed up, four of the five elders could be seen out on the edge waiting to greet the arrivals personally. Skimmer patrols sailed across the waves to inspect the ship from all angles. More skimmers brought up the rear, strapped with bags and pulled along by their handlers. This was clearly a big deal around here. The Olmakhan's only reliable contact with the outside world. 

But to none was it a bigger deal than to Gwynn, who Dhamon saw sauntering down the docks with a curiously large pouch of coins at her side and a very toothy grin plastered onto her face. 

"Well aren't you ready for a day in the market?" the dervish remarked. 

"Best day of the moon cycle," she said as she patted the leather coin purse, which Dhamon finally noticed was charr-sized rather than human. There must've been a small fortune in there. "Amnoon has the best traders. I've got a deal with one of them to bring me oddities from the mainland. He's the one I bought that prayer scroll from, among other things. Interesting trinkets. Eventful books. Objects I'm sure you might take for granted." 

Dhamon shrugged. "Hey, I wouldn't jump to conclusions just like that. Who knows? Merchants on the scummier side of Divinity’s Reach have convinced me to buy plenty worse before." 

It came time for a mass unloading. Crates and barrels, sacks and bandoliers--every container under the sun went up and down that wide gangplank. Clearly there were a great deal of preordained orders between the tribe and the tradesmen. Tanned hides and furs for unobtainable metal ingots. Fine crafts for raw silks. There even seemed to be some bartering over a few juvenile skimmers. The exchange of coin was swift and efficient. Was it thriftiness, or did the Olmakhan just want as little contact as possible with the outsiders? 

Ah, well now it seems the sailors spotted Dhamon from afar. A few pointed fingers and several lent ears made it obvious how peculiar it was that a human was among the Olmakhan. Figured that his own kind would gawk at him now that the charr had finally stopped. 

In a lull between sales, the dervish saw fit to make his way down to the end of the docks and see for himself what the big fuss was. Not before Gwynn had already beaten him to the punch, of course. And most of the village. 

He had yet to make it to the plank before a couple of sultry crewmen on break flagged him down. 

"A fellow man? In these parts?" One elonian said, his musty garments surprisingly posh for how much work was performed in them. "How'd you get th' cats to let you in? We can't even dock without a forty-sixty split, an' they'd drive Lyssa a bargain despite not carin' much about money." 

Another of the men popped the first one in the shoulder. This one's bald head was like a sunspot of its own, even in spite of their dark skin. "Ain't it obvious? Look at 'im. He's a man of the cloth. Probably from Kryta by the looks of it. Must've prostrated his way in. You know how the Olmakhan do." 

Dhamon gave a half-hearted nod. "You're not wrong. I came here on pilgrimage. Very few know of this place's existence farther north, so I was curious about a rumor of a tribe of charr whose faith could control nature, much like the man who was once my master." 

"Hah!'' The first sailor sniffed and returned the blow to the back of his cohort's head. "Know what that sounds like? The Cap'n's granddad. Y'know, the one he was always talkin' about fightin' and dyin' in the Sunspear war. What was he, a...a dervine or sommin? Some sorta wind priest or whatever." 

"Dervish," Dhamon corrected him. "Yes. They were all but wiped out in that war. A few masters of the faith fled in an attempt to continue their order. You're looking at one of the few people who had those gifts passed onto them." 

The two men exchanged a couple of perplexed looks. "No kiddin'? Hah, you're serious?" 

"What kind of dime-a-dozen priest of Melandru would make a pilgrimage to the Olmakhan and be let in?" 

The humor in their expressions drained for a moment. The bald man pointed up to the ship with his eyes. "Y' know what? I think you'd be popular with the cap'n." 

"My thoughts exactly." 

Dhamon promptly turned to make his way up the gangplank. Dodging around disembarking charr and crewmen alike, he set foot on the vessel and stepped off to the side to make way for the traffic. It felt strange to be among his kind, weird as that was to say. After spending a week having to look up to make eye-contact with the hulking forms of the people he was talking to, keeping his head level felt almost unnatural. Sweet Melandru, he was not going to be well-adjusted once he left his place. 

Most of the individual sales from person to person took place down on the actual docks, but there was still a bit of commotion up on the deck nonetheless. The more major exchanges of goods were still being settled on with the requisitioner, for one. The poor man was essentially surrounded, his quill burning holes in the parchment. Gwynn had been whisked away below deck into a side-pocket of candles and crates. It looked shady as hell, and more than interesting enough to creep down the creaking steps after her. 

"Ahai, my favorite customer! Didn't get much in this time. Had to focus on supply sales. Things are getting difficult with the refugees," said the charr's supposed contact while he fiddled with just one unmarked wooden container among the many. The strenuous candlelight didn't do much to help his ominous complexion, his sleeveless mariner's coat casting sharp shadows across his features. "Things getting difficult means things getting profitable. I just jump at the opportunity, you know? Th's how it works." 

Gwynn grunted. "Tell me you at least tried. It's been a season since you've impressed me with anything." 

"Come now. Don't be such a prude. I work my ass off for these finds, and only because you're so generous with that purse of yours." Just when the trader was about to reach into his chest of wonders, he caught Dhamon out of the corner of his vision, turning his head half-hunched over. "Huh? Don't think you were on the ship when we left." 

"Oh, don't mind me," he said. "I'm just an humble observer. Go on." 

A shrug later, the seedy merchant was digging through a chest suspiciously filled with cushioning cloths and cotton. Out came the first of his curiosities--some sort of embroidered damask handkerchief that looked like it came straight from a prince's shirt pocket. "Now here's a little somethin' from the vaults of Vabbi that might've originated from the very hidden city of Ahdashim. Hand-crafted, top-notch materials, perfect quality. The design here's supposed to be a djinni warding that safeguards the owner’s fortune." 

"You want me to buy something that some noble human once wiped their nose with?" Gwynn aptly put. 

"'Aight, fine. Be that way." 

Another delve into the chest of wonders resulted in a small silver ornament. A leatherbound handle sat in the center of two mirrored designs. The artistry depicted a pair of long-necked dragons, whose spread wings formed two spined handguards. The heads of the dragons curled back around into an oval shape, with two quartz gemstones set inside the maws of the beasts and inside of the circle. 

"How about this? A religious icon I had appraised to be over two-hundred years old! Just look at the craftsmanship they had back then. You can just see the passion in the etchwork there! All in the name of the same gods that Joko convinced three nations to abandon. The Awakened would've destroyed this artifact if they'd found it first, ay? Makes this a real treasure!" 

Gwynn's silver eye glowed with interest. She took the focus into her claws and inspected it closer to the light. "So it would seem! Is there a draconic deity this is modeled after?" 

"Nah, it's not," Dhamon muttered. "Actually, we still make those. It's a fairly common focus design in Dwayna's more artistic sects. The shape represents a symbol that's typically associated with life or healing. The ankh, I believe it's called? I think I've seen that exact focus before, probably modeled on that exact design for generation after generation." 

The smile that the merchant had worked so hard to cultivate fell from his face. He took the artifact back and returned it to the void of scrap cotton. "Yeah? Think you're a real expert, do ya? So glad I came to you for advice! And for free, too!" 

"What was so terrible about it? I don't understand." Gwynn turned to the dervish. 

"I mean, nothing really. It's just a premium cost for something that'd probably only be twenty or so silver to buy elsewhere. I could personally bless something more precious than that." 

A heavy pair of boots approached them from behind. "What's wrong, Solomon? Gwynn giving you trouble this month?" 

The new arrival spared no interest in looking underdressed. Adorned in the finest of elonian fashion, satin sashes and star-shaped chains all, he came around the corner with the kind of careless grin only spared by the wealthy. Dhamon could already tell what this guy was about. He had the same aura as those cranky nobles who wanted the temple to bless their garden or whatever. 

"Not any more than this holy pain-in-the-ass, captain," said the shady merchant with their nose still buried in his wares. 

"Holy?" The captain let out a chuckle. "'S that so? Then the chatter I've been hearing ain't so baseless? I hear there's been a human acolyte staying in Atholma. The elders called him a sandshifter, but a handful of my boys heard the word dervish get thrown around." 

"Already? I've only been on this ship for a handful of minutes. Word travels faster here than with a den of midwives.” Dhamon gave a polite bow of his head. “If you're asking, then yes. My master was a dervish of Melandru living in Kryta, as was his master before him, and so forth beyond that." 

The well-dressed man brought his fingers together, his gold rings twinkling in the low light. "How about this, Solomon? Why don't I take this priest off your hands? I'm feeling there's more wealth to be gained here than just gold." 

"Mother Dwayna, please do," replied Gwynn's contact just as he lifted what appeared to be a painted buckler made of old wood from the very bottom of his trunk. 

With a shrug, Dhamon leaned in close to the charr's ears. "Don't buy anything too outrageous, Gwynn. I'll bet half of this guy's inventory was cursed at one point or another." 

"Don't lecture me on my spending habits. That risk's just part of the fun," she replied with a flash of her fangs. 

The captain of this particular vessel was named Sumna Kante Omassi. He made this clear in a way that felt like it was supposed to be a big deal, with an elevated voice and a prideful gait, but to Dhamon it meant nothing. The dervish gave his own name with significantly less fanfare as he was led across the deck towards the captain's quarters. 

His immediate impressions of the room did little to affect every other impression he'd gotten of the man. It was already needlessly large for a mariner, the cabin spanning four arm's lengths across. Various colorful banners and tapestries hung from the walls, accompanied by the mounted trophy of a particularly ferocious drake with a flat head and iridescent blue scales. The quilted sheets on the cot were luscious and thick. A heavy desk made of polished dark wood was covered in the many charts and logs that any self-respecting trader should have, and behind it, three small windows that allowed the relentless Dajkah sun to peek through. 

Sumna went straight for a cupboard secured beneath the drake's trophy piece. From within he pulled two crystalline glasses and a handsome bottle of some rich, brown spirits. 

"I've never heard of a dervish from Kryta," the captain said as he handed Dhamon a full glass with a smile, then began to pour one for himself. "I don't hear of dervishes anywhere nowadays. My grandfather--now he was the best one I ever knew. Fought and died in the war against Palawa Joko, defending the Sunspear's Great Hall from a horde of invading centaur corpses. After he died, they besieged the place for weeks before they finally surrendered. Joko’d already taken Kamadan by that point. Far as I was aware, that lich bastard wiped the whole order clean." 

Dhamon gave a shrug. He sniffed at the noxious liquid, took a long sip, and suppressed the urge to recoil at the offensive taste. It was strong, whatever it was. "That's what I had been told, too. There are a few practitioners left up north as far as I'm aware. Mostly keeping a low profile, for reasons you could probably guess. The students of the students of the masters who fled to protect their order." 

"The stooges never really were keen on teaching more than one pupil at a time!" laughed Sumna, though it didn't seem like a very happy one. "Ah well. Stubborn bastards, y'are. If you've still got your head on your shoulders when the time comes I bet you'll enchant some small handful of youth, too." 

"That's the idea." 

Another slightly mournful chuckle. The captain, drink in hand, wandered over to the tiny windows and gazed out into the distant sea. "Could it be true, I wonder? Are you really someone standing right in front of me and not just a dream? My grandfather was an acolyte of Grenth, you see. A powerful one, capable of things no man could ever dream of. The frigid winds and frosted ground were his mistress, whom he fucked whenever he pleased. But he had achieved the pinnacle of faith, too." Sumna turned back to him. "Am I wrong to wonder if the ability to become one with the gods is lost, as well? Dhamon, do you know what I'm talking about?" 

He took another drink and scowled, his other arm crossed reservedly. "If we're thinking about the same thing, then no. Those secrets have not been lost. Though you'll find that they are secrets, after all, and ones kept with good reason. I hope you weren't expecting me to teach you about the art of transformation." 

"Me? Oh no, nohoho! I haven't got even a quarter of the patience I'd need to learn of your ways! After all, that time meditating could be better spent in a bazaar peddling for the goal of a cottage and a wife out on the coast." After another enthusiastic swig, Sumna sauntered over to the dervish and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I'm just ecstatic to hear my family's lineage ain't as dead as I thought it was! I mean, it's dead in my family, but the lineage itself goes on somewhere at least! It's just the last place I woulda expected to see it was in a tribe of xenophobic, admittedly wealthy charr." 

"The Olmakhan are closer to dervishes than you think. In technique, anyway. Once my own training was complete, the first thing I did was set out for this place in the hopes that I could learn more about what was lost to my own people." 

Sumna continued to trod around the room, his leather boots unreasonably loud against the frame of the ship. "Today is so full of surprises. I never would've thought that I'd meet a living, breathing dervish in my lifetime. I apologize--I must sound like I'm buttering you up. Many of my colleagues here couldn't care less for the old ways if it didn't earn them a coin. Me, I'm all for stickin' it to that fucking zombie on the throne for what he did to my family." 

Taking another modest swig of the vile liquid in his hands, Dhamon examined the tapestries on the captain's walls. Now that he mentioned it, most of these works of art depicted an age long gone--of shining empires and glorious soldiers beneath watchful suns. Things that would surely get this man executed should they be seen by someone working for Joko. What kind of idiotic bravery did it take for a merchant to sail these waters with all this hanging out in the open? 

"Amnoon is a free city, isn't it?" The dervish turned back around. "Are there not even practitioners of the old ways there?" 

"Free city? Hah! That place is just as deep under Joko's thumb as anywhere else in Elona. If you so much as insinuate that a stick is pointy, there'll be some rotting corpses visiting you that very night. The refugees that come pouring in from the south are simply allowed to do so. And it's just that. Refugees. Fleeing paupers and peasants. Not much of a resistance, is it? That's why I find it difficult to express just how inspiring it is to see you here. It's a sign that the world I knew isn't as dead as we're led to believe!" 

Inspiring, huh? With a fresh burning in his stomach and a tingling in his fingers, Dhamon started to believe that this alcohol might be leading his thoughts down some dangerous roads. It occurred to him that he had no destination after Atholma. Was there ever a better chance to use these skills he's developed since he was young than in defense of the people who pioneered them? It was...an option, to be sure. 

Swirling the last of the spirits around at the bottom of his cup in procrastination, he finally downed the rest and spoke up. "Then Amnoon might appreciate it if I happened to lend myself there, wouldn't they?" 

"Balthazar's beard, absolutely!" replied Sumna in an instant. "It would be exceptionally dangerous, perhaps, I know a few places you could lay low in while you're not out doing your thing. 'Course I know a few places! I need 'em for my own business, but I'll be damned if I ain't a generous fellow when it comes to people like you. And I mean that!" 

"Then what would you say if I said that I’d like to hitch a ride next time you come by? Maybe that's a reckless move on my part, but I feel that hesitation will only make the situation worse. Melandru would not guide me astray." 

For all the pacing the captain was doing around his quarters, he might as well have been a whole platoon's worth of marching Seraph. After some consideration, a grin spread across his face. "Yes. Yes, I do like the sound of that. It makes more of a difference than just building a fortune. The next time, you say? We've got a quicker shipment coming in for this place. Two weeks minimum, but bet on three. No more than four. And after that, we won't be 'round for three month’s time, since we got business all through the Season of the Scion." 

The Dervish, whose face had gone hot as the boiling in his stomach spread outwards, gave a resolute wave of his hands. "I believe that's acceptable. My training here has gone on well enough that I should be comfortable by that point. And if not, I'll return to the Olmakhan later." 

"Excellent!" exclaimed the captain. He marched over to the artisan bottle of spirits and back to Dhamon, placing the two-thirds of what was left in one of his arms and reaching for a handshake with the other. "Believe me, this is the greatest sale I'll make all day. This is the greatest sale I've made in years. My people have needed someone like you for generations. Here's to hoping you don't throw your life away before this investment pays." 

He finished the handshake, but held the bottle aloft. "And this?" 

"A down payment," Sumna answered, readjusting his clothing before starting towards the door. "Or a gift. Whichever you prefer to celebrate the start of our future partnership, Dhamon Matthews." 

The trading vessel would depart from Atholma's makeshift "port" just a couple hours after it arrived. Everything was finalized with remarkable efficiency, and in just a blink of an eye the anchor was being pulled and the gangplank retracted. And it was no wonder. All the formalities commonly found in docking with actual cities and ports--the legislation and registration and every other 'ation' upheld by workers in stuffy suits waiting to go home--was virtually nonexistent here. The elders had one simple wish: get the outsiders in and out as quickly as possible. It was impressive just how bogged-down exchanges like this had become in the modern day. 

Dhamon watched the ship catch a favorable wind and start to sail off into the distance. It disappeared behind the stony cliffs before it could sink below the horizon. The process of moving all of the traded goods from the docks to the village proper had begun, ensuring the dervish was pushed off to the side of the walkways near the edge. He sidled along the fall carefully and observed the commotion as he always did. There was a certain bittersweet feeling to it now. It wasn't so long ago that he was staring out at these people in awe and wonder of their lifestyle. Now that there was a timer ticking down, he knew he would come to miss this. The road of challenges laid out before him will make sure of that. 

Gwynn managed to find him before long. She, too, was pressed up near the ledge by the traffic. In her hands was a very specific item that was most definitely not created for a charr's hands. The little ankh's polished exterior glistened even more in the direct sunlight. 

"You got that thing after all?" 

She held the focus up with pride. "So what if it's common elsewhere? Nobody here's ever seen one, and the symbolism is something I find interesting. It's not like I was doing anything particularly crucial with the gold." The black charr craned her head, the slight tilt giving her eye a better vantage. "I see your talk with the captain went...well? Did you mean to walk out with most of a bottle of gin?" 

"I am leaving with that ship the next time it comes around," Dhamon announced. "To Amnoon." 

"You-" Gwynn went silent. 

"It's time that I put the skills invested in me to good use. This pilgrimage has been truly enlightening, and in the future I will absolutely return to this place, but I can't relax in paradise forever. There are people who need my help. People fleeing from an oppression that will chase them to the ends of Tyria. The same oppression that resents my existence and would do anything to wipe me and what I've learned from history. I think I've always known that I would head to Elona someday." 

"...I see," was all the charr said, her expression blank. 

Dhamon held the bottle aloft and swirled the liquid inside. "And the captain decided to just give me this, too. I'm not so sure about it. I'm not exactly into this stuff to begin with, and what's left in this bottle's probably worth more than my glaive if I'm being honest. It’s a kind enough gesture, I think?" 

After briefly staring out to the sea, Gwynn turned to him with the same empty look. "Then we'll have to ensure your training is complete before then. No use in casting spells you only partly understand." 

"Of course." 

And so began the walk back to land. Quiet, but energized. Not because they were forced onto the sidelines of the wooden catwalks, but because the future was fast approaching. It was clear to see in the way Dhamon tightly gripped the neck of the bottle he'd been given, or how much slack Gwynn put into holding the artifact she was prepared to boast about not minutes prior.


	6. Chapter 6

"Easy, girl. Don't- Ah, I was never much good with animals," 

For all the grace that had been hammered into his martial prowess, Dhamon could barely keep upright as the sky-blue skimmer grew antsier by the minute. He drew at the reins and lowered his center of mass as best he could, but the animal almost certainly felt the unease in his movements, nervously jerking back and forth. The Olmakhan made it look so easy to ride these things, but it was like trying to ride on someone else's shoulders while they slid around on a floor covered with butter and oil. 

"Ah, don't say that!" Kall exclaimed. The charr calmed the skimmer with a single tap of his claws, as if his fearsome presence was somehow comforting. "What you don't see is every cub of ours being tossed straight off into the sea. I've always thought it had something to do with the weight. The ones that get used to riding with fully-grown charr don't know how to compensate. And 'ol Nancie here gets like this sometimes if I'm being perfectly honest. Just last week she threw me simply because a gull flew by and spooked her. This is par for the course if I've ever seen it." 

The dervish hadn't exactly ridden many animals in his life. Apart from the sexual innuendo which he quickly stowed in the back of his mind, most of his experience with beasts of burden was from afar, or from the backs of wagons being pulled along bumpy krytan roads. Being able to control a four-legged animal was probably the first logical step in the path to controlling one that levitated five feet above the ground. Even so, he eventually got Nancie to casually drift forward without too much fuss, the streamers of blue that extended from the skimmer's fins lazily waving through the air. 

"See? That’s the way, alright! You've got it figured out!" the tamer cheered. "Suppose I should've expected it from you. Gwynn told me you were a fast learner. You'll be riding with the best of us in no time." 

"If you can call this riding-!" Dhamon managed to say as he narrowly ducked below a hanging rope. Good thing he wasn’t a charr, or his horns would’ve almost certainly caught. At least the animal was calm, even if it had become so by essentially disregarding his existence. 

Then, all of a sudden, no one was calm. It happened in the blink of an eye. A baleful wind washed through the suspended catwalks of the village, cold and ominous. The skimmer immediately started to shift beneath him, a sharp trill exiting its mouthparts. Dhamon shook himself free and dismounted from Nancie before she could toss him off herself. He landed hard on his hands and knees while nearby Kall rushed to stop the skimmer from fleeing. Nearby, other skimmers made a similar noise, alerting the herd of a danger that had yet to be revealed. 

"What was that?" Dhamon shot to a stand and brushed off the dust and sand. 

After muttering to the skimmer in too deep of a voice, Kall turned his grimace towards the dervish. "A sign of distress. Something's gone wrong. That wind was southernly, from the direction of the front gates." 

That was all he needed to know. Goosebumps still running across his arms, Dhamon rushed to grab his polearm from its leaned position against the side of a hut and took off down the beach. 

The others had noticed the omen, too. Children sheepishly stuck their heads out of doorways and over ledges while the adults hurried to wrap up what they were doing. Nets and harpoons were dropped on the spot. Crafts half-finished were set aside. As his sandals sunk into the sand, he spoke a prayer not to the mother of nature, but to the harbinger of war. 

Several charr had already rushed past the gate when he arrived. Most were earthstalkers, brandishing blades of their own. The threat wasn’t immediately visible, however. The source of the distress had surely come from closeby, but the warriors had no enemy to greet. The search was short-lived as someone called out and alerted the rest of them to head deeper into the brush. Alongside the villagers, Dhamon pressed through the foliage to find an injured charr with an empty quiver. 

Her spotted brown fur was caked with a gruesome padding of mud and blood. She clutched at her side and let one of her twisted legs drag behind her, looking up at them with a scowl of pain. While two of the earthstalkers took point in case danger was still nearby, the dervish and one other warrior had tossed their weapons to the side and knelt beside the collapsed charr. She spat a glob of red spit and growled. 

"Don't bother. I got away. No one followed me." 

"One of you idiots go and get Senn! It's his sister!" The crouching warrior barked his orders before turning back to his wounded kin. "What happened, Keya? What did this to you?" 

Rolling on her back pulled a grunt of effort from deep inside her throat. She hesitated to speak, heaving for breath. "Those rats. They finally turned on us. Apparently I partrolled too close to their camp. Set their metal elementals on me. Killed my skimmer, too. I barely made it out of there." 

"Hold still," Dhamon said as he forced a broken armor strap undone and began to search through her sullied fur for the source of the crimson. It seemed her worst injuries were mostly internal, though the cuts and bruises were still a threat, and that gnarled leg had clearly been put through an adrenaline-fueled hell on her way back. He turned to the adjacent guards. 

"Waterskins. I need all of yours. I'm going to try to wash out most of this." 

When he went to move the charr's leg, a snarl and a fresh row of claw marks in his arm were his thanks. "Human! What do you think you're doing?" 

"Preventing infections until the actual lifebinders get here," he answered, drawing the signet dagger from his belt. "Melandru knows what kind of muck you had to drag yourself through to get here. You're welcome to gouge out my flesh in the meantime, though. I'm more used to the feeling than I have any right to be." 

Sprinkling waterfalls swept away a majority of the drying mud from her wounds and let a fresh surge of blood rise to the surface. He could see her quickened heartbeat in the pulsing of the tide. Offering up himself to the wilderness around him, Dhamon positioned the flat of the blade over many of the smaller gashes and got to work. It was a different feeling when he used these spells outside of practice. The primal magicks flowed more easily when his mind was his blank and his focus was undivided. Likewise, the wounds closed much more easily. 

More crashing through the jungle. New arrivals to the scene plowed through the vegetation like a stampeding herd. Dhamon felt a wall of mass plow into him, pressing his back into the dirt and placing a claw on his chest. Senn's furious visage filled his vision. 

"Get away from Keya, outsider!" 

"Senn, Ow! Fuck!" cried his sister. "Nature rot you! He was healing me, dammit!" 

Another charr pulled Senn off of him. Disoriented and bruised, Dhamon picked himself up and felt around for his dagger in the nearby weeds. "Well I was, anyway." 

"Now I am." 

A deeper, more commanding growl cut through the chaos. Elder Gawr came through the brush, leaving an after-image of spooling teal magics in his wake. In spite of his huge stature, he cleared the area with nothing more than a few nudges and some grunts. Following up the rear were yet more lifebinders, along with several more of the council. 

Gawr briefly looked over the wounded charr and gestured for his lessers to prepare to lift her. He shot a glance at Dhamon. "Your skills could use some work, but for your crude practices you've done a fine enough job. Everyone, come. We cannot stay in the forest." 

The walk back was kept safe by a vanguard of at least ten other charr, spellcasters and soldiers all. During that short walk, the reality of the situation spilled forth from Keya's stained lips and into the ears of everyone there. The asura had finally made their move. He imagined most of the Olmakhan expected that this day would come, as this news was not met with surprise, but with pursed lips and long stares. The elders said nothing. Their minds were working now when they should've already decided what would happen on this day months ago. 

Even Gwynn had joined the crowd of onlookers before long. Her face went dark as she heard the news, no longer trying to shepherd the handful of cubs she'd been tutoring not minutes ago. 

The lifebinders would eventually take Keya to one of the reed structures with a canvas ceiling out by the sea. The space was open apart from the pillars that held the roof in place, yet the warriors had to hold back a majority of the village. Some exceptions were made, and those who could absolutely did pile into the area. Senn and their blacksmith mother, for one. The elders. The rest of the lifebinders. Gwynn--and by extension, Dhamon--were respected or relevant enough to be allowed through into the shade. 

"What a terrible turn of events. I knew the sea was churning nervously this morning," Elder Yowen openly commented while Gawr shouted commands to his many disciples. 

"Then we should have been more careful!" Rhona said. "If nature offers up a warning, you must heed it! Why were our furthest patrols without a partner? Why was Keya, an inexperienced nightwalker, fulfilling that role to begin with?!" 

"And why aren't we culling that population of rats?!" Senn screamed at the top of his lungs. "They did this to her! We knew they'd do it to somebody! If not, they'd destroy our island before anything else! We must push back!" 

Elder Dorran stepped in. "That is enough. We mustn't turn to violence in a fit of blind fury. This requires careful thought and a level head." 

"You have had multiple seasons of careful thoughts and level heads," Gwynn spoke up and took her place beside the rest of the council. "Do not forget where we come from. We fled from what was thought to be senseless bloodshed. This is for retribution, and for the protection of our people and our land. Peace means nothing to those who seek to take what is yours. Extend your hands again, they will slap them away." 

"Do not let your obsessions cloud your ideals, Gwynn!" Yowen snapped back. "We have cultivated our peace and our prosperity for generations! There is no reason to handle this like a legion charr! Like a human! We are the Olmakhan, not any of those!" 

Gwynn looked like she was about to claw the elder's eyes out, but Narn walked in between them. "Yowen. The only one whose ideals have been clouded is yours. Our children are being attacked. Our lands are being disrespected. Olma was impassioned, not a pacifist." 

"You dare try to assume what Olma would do in this situation?" 

Keya's mother spoke, a padded glove still on her hand and a dusting of soot still in her coat. "Who cares what Olma would do? She's not here, and it's not her cub that's been maimed. I'm willing to fight on my own if I have to, but I swear on the stars that guide us that I shall fight." 

"You wouldn't have been alone, anyway," grumbled Senn as he drew and pondered his blade. 

"We cannot-!" Dorran let the breath at the back of his tongue slip wordlessly away as a sigh. He looked to Gawr, but shrouded in a white light and hell-bent on stopping any internal bleeding inside Keya's body, the elder didn't have much of an opinion. "...We cannot rush in blindly. If this fight is a just cause, then we must take it with caution. Those iron behemoths those outsiders use are clearly lethal. This will require planning and organization. Who-" 

Gwynn had already raised her head and straightened her back. "I'll do it. And I will have Dhamon accompany me in preparation and in battle. Before you say anything about my 'obsession' with outsiders, he is from an order of holy warriors, and carries a welcome perspective in this endeavour we've so faithfully tried to ignore." 

"Then let it be so," said Narn, clapping his claws together in finality. With that one syllable of sound, the Olmakhan had declared war. 

There was that familiar ache in his chest. It's been a while, but it always came back stronger than ever. That feeling which spreads out past his ribcage and takes refuge in his limbs, filling the muscles with an unkempt vigor and reverberating in his tendons like a wanderer plucks at his guitar’s strings. His breathing had already fallen into a battle-ready pattern. The bouncing weight of the glaive on his back kept his march steady. At some point he had pulled his hood up, but that fleeting snippet of memory had already fallen to the wayside. 

A storm was brewing overhead. The beautiful blue of this morning gave no signs of it, for it was never meant to be. Storm and windcallers alike followed along the back of the party, their thunderous songs of nature's wrath captured by the stony walls that surrounded their passage through the island. The first signs of rain came in small showers and brief gusts, but the clouds darkened by the minute. 

While their chanting went on, other devouts of nature joined in the center with hymns of personal protection and righteousness. Splinter groups of archers scouted the surrounding areas and converged with the main group every so often. The bulk of the force was made up of earthstalkers. Mostly the young, as they more readily agreed to fight. A spined bulwark of swords and spears and bestial fury. 

He and Gwynn were among the front of the militia. She was fully dressed in a robe of dense leather, yet the parts where her fur did show was painted with the same blue and white markings as during the festival of the spring, right down to the elaborate markings on her face. Similarly, she wore the enchanted mantle from before, streaking lines of latent energy through the air as she strut onwards with undivided determination. In her grasp was a staff he had never seen her use before--one made of metal and crystal rather than wood and stone. The signets etched directly into the iron were clear as day--glowing already, even. 

"Nearly there!" the black charr shouted over the numerous prayer songs that filled the air. "You will wait for the signal to fight! Do not be the one who strikes first! We cannot afford to do this carelessly! Nightwalkers engage only from the sidelines! Stormcallers, lay waste only to their elementals! Sandshifters, let your effigies do your work! We will chase these intruders from our lands!" 

Dhamon cracked his knuckles. "You sure you've never done this before?" 

"Guess this kind of thing comes naturally to charr." She huffed through her nose. "Or perhaps I'm a little strange for an Olmakhan." 

"You can take the charr from the fight but you can't take the fight from the charr." 

She shook her head. "Whatever that means." 

The Olmakhan came to the canal which cut straight through Dajkah. The coming rains had already turned the pearly sand into a somber brown and dampened the twinkling colors of the water. With the developing asuran city in view, the whole attacking force turned inland at the coast and traveled towards the supposed location of the asuran forward camp. 

There was no doubt about it--the city had definitely grown since he last saw it. Not by much, but those golems were working overtime for sure. He shuddered to think just what was planned for this place with the amount of asura that could fit into such a towering structure. 

Before long, the sandy beach shrank down into a sheer cliff that hung over the water, and instead a passage of thick grass and baobab roots curled off and up a hill. No commands were given, but the bulk of their forces started to hang back behind the two of them. Further up the slope, a handful of nightwalkers dropped in, reported that the rats were present, and disappeared back into the treeline. As the earth flattened nearer the zenith of the hill, Dhamon could feel his heart start to pound in his chest. The howling winds couldn't disguise the distant hum of magical machinery. 

There. Past a grove of ferns and around the bend, he saw buildings made of a similar sleek material as the massive structures, only these seemed more hobbled together. It was like someone had unpacked sets of pre-built blocks made to form into research labs and had golems clumsily put them together. The darkness brought by the storm seemed to cause many white spotlights along the path to automatically turn on. He and Gwynn had only just set foot in the camp when the first lumbering monstrosity of a machine stomped into view, but it seemed much more occupied with moving a cage of live siamoth than dealing with intruders. 

A noisy conversation coming from ahead made the both of them stop in their tracks. 

"...telling you, there is an meteoatheric disturbance on the radar! We should put the measuring equipment back into their casings before a gale sweeps by and knocks over some vital instrument! I'm not going back to Kuda to requisition anything else for you!" A nasaly voice whined. 

"Oh, shove a power core up your rectum and take a seat," responded a deeper voice. "Those machines aren't half as fragile as you think they are. The amount of times I've dropped that converter would make your head spin." 

"That conv- That's MY converter! You mean to tell me that-" 

The asura came around the corner, and upon seeing the two invaders of their little operation, went silent. They were most certainly researchers, wearing flimsy garbs of scarlet with more pockets than protection. One was bald and hunched, while the other was taller and dressed in a more decorated uniform. A holographic screen that extended from the tall one's wrist blinked away as he ran his hands through his hair. 

"Well isn't this just stupendous?! First the spontaneous meteoatheric storm comes to quite literally rain on our parade, and now a handful of those infernal natives stop by to ensure I am well beyond irritated! Sure, why don't we just air-drop some of Jozz's mechanical slaughter-bees into camp for crying out loud!" 

"You hurt one of ours," growled Gwynn. She went exceptionally still when she got angry. Like a predator in the brush. 

The chief researcher rolled his wrist. "Huh? You mean that incessant interloper and their Mobula Macrolepidoptera? Of course I sent my golems after them. They were snooping around our operation, much like you are now. Honestly, it's a wonder how we haven't already domesticated the charr. The average intelligence of your species doesn't seem to rise too high above the woodland creatures you hunt, does it?" 

"But there's a human now!" cried the nasally asura. "I wouldn't suggest humans are much more capable as a species, but perhaps we can reason with that one to convince the rest of these bookahs to leave us alone?" 

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth, Flepp!" Then, the chief researcher turned to Dhamon. "Anyways, bookah. I'm sure we can be reasonable. You understand me, right? The Inquest is doing very important research in this region. If the land cannot support the experiments that will take place in the future Rata Primus, then all of this work will be for naught, and I'll probably be the unwilling test subject of another wormhole device. Would you be so kind as you tell these mangy beasts to leave. Us. Alone?" 

He drew his glaive and held it at a perfect horizontal position. The tool that serves the craftsman. The anchor which stays the ship. Without having to utter a single word, the mere stance he took roused ancient energies from the point his sandals connected with the earth. Melandru was here with him--he knew this to be an absolute truth. Receptive. Tentative. She wanted this farce to end as much as he did. 

"The Inquest are not welcome here." Dhamon bowed his head. "This place does not belong to you. You have turned down the goodwill of the Olmakhan time and time again, and went as far as to nearly kill one of their own. And not only that, but you've recklessly and carelessly defaced nature for your own gain. So no, I'm not going to tell these mangy beasts to leave. I'm going to tell you to. Unless you'd like to research what it's like to be on the receiving end of a warband of vengeful charr." 

A dull shuffling from behind them. The earthstalkers had ascended the hill and were waiting on a hair-trigger. The storm above had gotten so bad that there was a vortex starting to form over the camp. And even though it was impossible to see, the surrounding trees were bound to be full of notched arrows and slit eyes. There was more than just Melandru's will here. It was the combined emotion of the Olmakhan that started to swirl at his feet. Growing. Pulsing. Ready. 

The chief asuran didn't seem to like that. He pulled up that ethereal tablet of his and started to smash in some sort of code. "You know, I'm really starting to question how it was that my supervisor talked me into this. What kind of mission involves setting up shop on an island filled with _feral charr_?! I had better receive a shining commodation or this is all going in the garbage disposal!" 

One final number, then a resolute slap of a fake button. A siren wailed twice off in the distance as every spotlight went red. More asura came out of their tents and holes wondering what was going on, but many more golems emerged from every other nook and cranny. Many, many more golems. 

Dhamon turned his glaive vertical and relinquished his spiritual connection to Tyria. "O' Melandru, mother of all life, master of cycles and earth. I beseech to ye in this hour of need, to let the cruel reality of your grace be my shepherd, my vision, and my form. My blood shall become of yours, and my flesh like the stewards who ye bore from the living." 

The mists had already started to shift around the dervish, yet the danger was far quicker. The Inquest camp attempted to retreat deeper into the camp while a horde of golems blinked to life and started to close in. The shifting tension of the charr behind him was audible above the wind, but not more than Gwynn's voice. 

"Dhamon, it's time! We need to fall back!" 

"...and let all who trample upon these blessings of soil and sun be quenched in the crimson tide of their regret, and set their souls loose to the realms far beyond the benevolence of your wilderness..." 

It started at his feet, as it always did. A building pressure, boiling over and swirling back into itself, began to crawl up his leg. Just as the oak reaches towards the sky, this consecration of the material took hold from the most worldliest point of contact. It was not armor that coated him, but a complete conversion of matter and composition. Divinity swelled around Dhamon while he continued to let the heartfelt prayer roll from his tongue. Bud to blossom. Seeds to sanctuary. Of life, of death, and of the most holy of rebirths. 

The closest golem had long since dropped its cage of siamoth and lumbered over to the dervish. It was an object of intent, but not of nature. There was no expression behind its soulless sensory modules. There was no effort put behind the hydraulics which forced it to advance on him. And most of all, there was no spirit behind the spring-loaded punch that it had reeled back to deliver. 

"No! Dhamon!" 

A robotic fist crashed through his side. Dhamon did not flinch, however, for most of his body was still rooted so deep into the ground that half of his body was connected to a different realm in the mists altogether. The blow crashed through bark and wood, splintering off like a tree's brown flesh rather than the red blood of a human. Then, a gnarled knot began to form around the point of impact, instantly healing the wound and capturing the golem's arm in its immovable strength. Though its operating system urged it to pull back, the machine couldn't break free. 

Finally, a swathe of bark and divinity closed around the dervish's head. Where there was once the face of a man had become a plate of solid plant matter, with two depthless holes from which he saw the infinite efficacy of nature. His body had long since transformed completely into that in the shape of a woman's, yet constructed of a solid mesh of branches and twigs. 

The knotted wound which held the golem in place tightened as the avatar twisted himself to the side and broke free of the roots that held him. Sparks started to fly from the strained joint which connected the arm to the rest of the machine. All the while the golem dug a rut in the ground attempting to retreat. 

"O' Melandru. Let us act. Amen." 

A screaming lunge, a gust of wind. Gwynn came flying out the corner of his eye and delivered such a powerful blow to the golem that its arm finally came loose--from itself. The force of the charr’s enchantment-woven staff busted off its entire faceplate and seemed to knock a few things loose inside. Her unbridled rage went on as she swallowed another spell and swept the golem's leg right out from under it, causing it to clatter to the ground while spouting a slew of garbled error codes. The moon in her eye turned to him. Fear and wonder had mixed into one expression. 

He would have smiled in reassurance, but he lacked the face to do so, and there was no time. Dhamon pulled the sparking arm from his torso and let it fall, the wound reshaping into the form it was originally meant to take. The rest of the golems had arrived. 

Orisons no longer required words to be uttered. When a man was this close to his god, invocations were already will, and praise was unnecessary. He held his blade aloft and commanded a tornado of winds and soil to surround him. 

Where Gwynn had to retreat from a group of three machines, he carried forward and took the fight head-on. A flurry of magnetically-thrown fists simply glanced off of an aura of equivalent force. Then, that same spell readily jumped into the motion of a sweep and cleaved straight through the alloy shells of two of the golems. A graceful spin to evade a blow transitioned into a second strike, and then an underhanded third. The glaive never stopped moving. It never changed directions, or had its momentum redirected. In one continuous movement, he carved the golems into a collective pile of non-functioning parts, left to smoke in the pouring rain. 

A war cry sounded over the songs. Asura fled in the opposite direction while a surge of charr clashed with their fumbling contraptions. Joining that first push was a legion of elementals molded into a charr's shape. who shrugged off the first strikes for their creators. Claws moved in a uniform flowing motion from the backline and brought down massive spires of blinding lightning onto turrets that had risen from beneath the plates of the buildings. A supportive gale carried the arrows that came from the trees towards their targets with such might that even the simple obsidian arrowheads could puncture their armor. Thus the punishment of the wicked had begun. Thus was the way of nature. 

"I ought to bash this over your head for scaring me like that!" cried Gwynn as her own personal storm of dust and sand started to reform. "But I'll do it later! Now, we charge! Nature grant us strength!" 

More magical constructs came to dam the tide of fangs and fury. The same number fell to the Olmakhan and Dhamon's ensorceled blade. They plunged into the camp and began to destroy the livelihood of the Inquest one brick at a time. Shredded papers and smashed consoles. The debris of their foes' defenses started to pile up, but there always seemed to be more clamouring over the scrap metal. 

This next wave of golems were more slender, yet seemed far more stable. Clearly built for security rather than just duty. Bolts of unfiltered magic began to spill from sockets in their folded hands. Gwynn had pulled the earth in front of her and formed a wall to absorb the blasts, yet Dhamon could simply weave in between them with his superhuman agility. The shielding of the golems didn't fare much better against the cutting power of pressurized wind and the concentrated edge of divine steel. 

Another two golems down. The third Gwynn had broken apart piece-by-piece with several well-placed swings of her staff. Four and five were stunned by chain bolts of lightning and forcefully dismantled by the flood of blades. At the front of the pack was Senn, nearly unrecognizable beneath the hide helmet that covered him. It was only his voice that gave it away. 

"Go on ahead with the others! Chase those rats down and make 'em pay for what they did! We'll clean up the rest of their work here!" 

The Inquest researchers were routed down the opposite side of the hill and were forced onto the beach. Many had gathered up hundreds of hours of precious research into their arms, often dropping them in their haste and being urged on by a barrage of arrows striking the ground they once stood. 

There was a bridge of floating hexagonal plates over the canal, which many of the scientists scurried over while the wind battered them to and fro. A quad of turrets had already risen from the corners of the structure and waited for enemies to come into range. More than that, a small handful of the asura were guarding the northern side of the bridge, each equipped with glowing full-plate armor and an oddly shaped rifle. 

When Dhamon and Gwynn came into view, the guards quickly lined up their weapons before even the turrets could. 

"Intruders in sight! Prepare the aetheromagnetic disruption particle beams and train on any targets within firing distance!" 

"Just call it a gun for Alchemy's sake!" 

"Shut up and strip the protections off of them!" 

Their weapons charged up for several moments before launching huge shockwaves of some vibrating light. Too wide to evade, too many to retreat. Dhamon ducked his head of twisted bark and braced for impact, but the waves only seemed to bring discomfort and heat as they washed over him. However, the many spells that had been woven into his oaken flesh unraveled right before his eyes, with several layers of magic dissipating in a jittering mess of glowing mists. Gwynn experienced a similar fate as even her enchanted mantle had its meticulous runes come undone. Then the turrets had finally locked their aim. 

Bolts of plasma flew through the air. Dhamon had only the time to rush in front of Gwynn, taking two of the blasts to his chest and one to the corner of his shoulder. Though he did not feel pain, the bark in these places had blackened and curled off instantly, revealing untouched white wood and allowing a stream of sap to ooze forth. Another volley came, but he had already summoned a defensive barrier to bounce the bolts of light away. 

"What the- You imbeciles missed, didn't you?! Fire again!" 

More waves of stripping magic washed over him. More blasts came from the smoking muzzles of the floating cannon fixtures. Yet he was a font from which a seemingly endless bounty of power sprung forth. Marching down into the sand, Dhamon bore down on the foes of the Olmakhan, flickering as his shield dissolved and was resummoned with every passing second. The heartless wrath of nature could not be assuaged, nor could it be controlled. Just as the storm spun unstoppable above this island, his transformed legs trudged on through the hail of fire. He was indefatigable. 

One of the asuran guards dropped their weapon entirely. "What kind of fiend is that?! If we pumped that many wavelengths into a mortal they would've fried inside-out regardless of their levels of ambient magic! We need to get back to the gate now!" 

Many of their cohorts followed suit and ran. All but one, who continued to charge their weapon in vain. "Then run, cowards! Run back to your holes and shake in your suits! I will not let this venture be in vain!" 

Two more blinding flashes and deafening booms. Two turrets disabled, struck by winding cracks of lightning and blasted into the waters to sink and steam. The Olmakhan broke free of the treeline and charged onto the beach with a rousing chorus in their throats. Even when the segmented bridge was disabled from the other side and fell to the bottom of the waves, this asuran guard didn't seem to notice, simply continuing to scream at the top of his lungs and point his worthless weapon at the dervish. 

A single long swipe busted the rifle's fragile design and knocked it straight into the distance. He could have continued the motion and finished the fool. It would have been easy. 

He did, at first. 

The blade of his polearm swung around and came mere inches from the asuran's throat, causing them to stumble to the ground and frantically backpedal away. Though he couldn't see the eyes of this person through their digitized visor, there was another eye to his back, watching. Urging him to show mercy. He relented and lowered his weapon. 

In fact, he showed an extra bit of mercy and grabbed the asura by the collar. They fought and punched and squirmed against his grip, but it was as useless as beating against a willow. The internal workings of his arm shifted with the hapless asura in tow. The transformation curled his bicep backwards more and more, well beyond the stretching point of any human body. His coiled arm creaked like the branches of a tree in a hurricane until he finally released every last ounce of tension into a single swing. The asura flew like a ragdoll and landed on the opposite shore mere moments later. His bark skin was cracked, but functional form had returned not a moment later. 

The last of the turrets went down, and the final push over the river took place. Many of the shamanic Olmakhan blessed themselves to be able to cross the waves as if the water were solid. Not Dhamon. He simply waded into the canal and walked forward, the intensity of his aura so great that the water parted around him and joined into the vortex. 

He knew there wasn't much time left. This had to be the finishing blow. Though he couldn't consciously think about it without falling through, this was surely the longest he had ever held this state. 

Every researcher, guard, and scientist had already fallen back behind a towering wall of metal and a shield of physical light. The charge came to a halt as they were met with this impassable obstacle. Two more cannons rose from seemingly nowhere and began to train their sights, long barrels glistening as the rain pelted on. 

The dervish was unafraid of such artillery. He strode forward where the others fell back, the wounds he'd sustained already mended into gnarled wooden knots. There was an incredible swelling in his chest that felt like a miracle had come true. Victory had never felt so close. This righteousness couldn't be ignored. 

The turrets shuddered and fired. It wasn't plasma. 

His mystic barriers were pierced like a balloon. Massive slugs left the barrels so quickly that he didn't even see it until the accelerated bullets had exploded out the back of his torso and impacted the ground behind him in an eruption of dirt and stone. He was thrown backwards, his sense of balance completely and utterly destroyed along with a good quarter of his body mass. 

The divine magics which bound him together struggled to mend the gaping holes that were missing from his body. A massive gale carried him backwards towards the others. Just as another slug barely missed his head, a wall of earth rose between him and the half-built fortress like a cradling hand. 

His connection was severed. Melandru's grace was leaving him. As a dreadful sense of mortality returned, so too did the pain. The last thing he really comprehended seeing before blacking out was a slew of terrified charr faces. Among them was a single, wide, horror-filled silver eye.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunrise. 

Or was it sunset? 

No, that was sunrise. Look at the direction of the sun. Keep your wits about you, idiot. 

... 

Dhamon opened his eyes again, but this time took a moment to understand his surroundings. The haze that had descended over his pounding head parted just enough for him to recognize the same canvas ceiling as earlier. The last vestiges of night sky were still being pushed out by a rising sun, whose beams just barely reached over the mountains and warmed the wind. The sound of waves lapping against the shore accompanied the slight howl of the pulse in his ears. Javelins of pain stabbed into his abdominals just in the beginnings of an attempt to sit up. He felt like he'd been run over by a herd of stampeding minotaur. 

"Ah! No, don't do that. Definitely don't do that." 

A frantic lifebinder came by to urge him back down onto the woven mat. An expression of grey fur and exhaustion filled his vision. "You, stay still. You're not going anywhere. In fact, that reminds me I should probably change out your bandages. Again. You and three others. Ugh, nature preserve me-- put your head up on this pillow." 

"Wasn't I just..." he trailed off, mindlessly following the charr's stark orders. "The canal. Weren't we storming the Inquest city?" 

"Sheesh. Do you really not remember? I mean, I wasn't there, but the descriptions some of the earthstalkers were giving were ridiculous. I'm inclined to believe them seeing as how you're not dead." 

Dhamon craned his head. "What descriptions? I really can't remember much further back than..." The crude gauze around his torso was pulled away, revealing a plane of red, raw flesh where the left side of his stomach was supposed to be. Exposed muscle and fat tissue. "Oh. Actually, nevermind. I think I, um. I can recall enough." 

"You were dead," the lifebinder plainly put, washing out the wound as Dhamon bit his tongue trying not to groan from the pain. "Some of the siege weapons the rats used blew these massive holes straight through you, I heard. Popped you out of some kind of--I don't know--effigy spell or something? Well apparently whatever residual magicks were floating around inside of you managed to stick around long enough to keep you from fully keeling over. Not to mention the fact that you were immediately surrounded by three lifebinders as you fell. Honestly, despite all that, I still don't know how you're still around, human." 

He decidedly went on to glance in a direction that didn't have the gaping injury in his peripherals. There were quite a few more charr beneath this shaded area by the sea. Many were in similar conditions to him, bound up by their broken bones and gashes. Among them was a particularly bored looking female with sand-colored fur, who stared back at him with a passing interest. 

"The hero awakens, huh?" Keya gave a grin. "Strongest outsider any of us have ever seen. I woulda given a lot to see you in action out there. I heard the look on the faces of those rats was priceless. Such a shame we couldn't push past their fortress, but at least they've learned their lesson." 

"Count yourself lucky you're alive too," replied the lifebinder in the midst of tending to him. "A skimmer and a busted leg are small prices to pay for your life. The fact that there weren't any casualties in the first place is a miracle, and I've been praising nature all damn night. Trust me, you didn't want to be there." 

Keya threw her head back, her horns sticking into the mat. "What are you, my mother?" 

"No. Your mother had two of her ribs broken when she was struck by a metal elemental. She's resting at home, tending to your brother who tore several muscles when he tried to pry one of the elemental's arms off. There's a stubborn blood running through your veins that just gives me more work to do. Anyway, lower your head." 

He did as he was told, his hand immediately tracing over the woven bandaging the first chance he got. The pain was sharp and intense, but it was on the surface only. He most certainly didn't feel like huge chunks of him had been blown out the back of his body. The memory readily rose to the surface to reassure him that yes, he definitely would have died from that stunt if not for the saving hands which caught him. 

"Praise be to Melandru," Dhamon muttered under his breath, then turned his head back around. "Where's Gwynn?" 

In the midst of preparing to work on a different person, the gray lifebinder shot him a scoff. "I can't help you if you're already blind, human." 

Embarrassingly, Gwynn was less than six feet away, passed out against one of the wooden pillars. Her bodypaint was smeared and faded, leaving random blotches of color across her face and over her arms. The hide armor was arguably as good as when she first put it on yesterday afternoon, if a bit dirty and slightly singed. She had somehow fallen asleep while sitting up, stuck in as awkward of a position as possible, as if intentionally laying that way to ignore her fatigue and eventually falling prey to it anyway. 

A chuckle left Keya's throat. "Took her long enough. She was pining over you more than the damn healers all night. I don't know how someone could spearhead a battle and then spend the rest of the night staring at someone sleeping. It's not like you were going to go anywhere." 

"Is she hurt?" 

"Nope," said the lifebinder. "Just completely exhausted. Fool should've got some rest hours ago. I've never seen her more worried. Guess that means you're her favorite outsider." 

Dhamon let his gaze return to the ceiling, a heaviness taking hold of all of his muscles all the way down to the ones that simply swiveled his eyes in their sockets. He barely had the strength to take a drink of water before letting himself sprawl out on the firmness of the mat. 

The throbbing in his side had become much too obvious, but it did little to ward away the reemergence of his drowsiness. Getting mortally wounded and recovering probably did that to you, huh? Perhaps Melandru's blessings weren't as infallible as they felt. Nevertheless, a victory without death was a victory well-earned, even if he was still too much in shock to appreciate it. 

As his body's metabolism drained the last of his brief gasp of consciousness, Dhamon leaned his head back and concentrated on simply listening to the world. To the lone lifebinder's quiet swears as she worked yet longer hours to care for the wounded. To the soft moans of those who were in worse shape than he. To the wind flapping in the fabric ceiling, or the sea as the tide started to roll in. He heard Gwynn's snoring, which wasn't helped by the ridiculous position she had put herself in. It was no coincidence that this was the last thing he heard before a dream tore through his thoughts and stole him away. 

The healers would send the dervish on his way sometime near the latter edge of the evening. By their tireless efforts, and in no short part by Melandru's loyalty to her faithful, his once fatal wounds were mostly stable by the time supper would have rolled around. Broken bones and contusions were not nearly as easy to mend with the Olmakhan's natural magicks, and they did little in the way of dampening any aches or pains, but their effects could not be denied. With one last set of bandages and a congratulatory slap on the shoulder by elder Gawr, he was sent to hobble off home and make room for other wounded. 

They gave him his glaive back. It wasn't in the best shape. A small piece had chipped off the blade, and the handle had taken a denting blow, but the weapon had served its purpose remarkably well. His robes, however, did not survive the fight. Though assuming the form of an avatar altered his body and everything upon him, it seemed taking two large magnetically-accelerated cannonballs to the chest had a direct correlation to what was spiritually beneath. The gaping tears in the fabric flapped openly as the breeze caught at his shirt. 

He hadn't walked for more than a minute before someone volunteered to repair it. In fact, there were dozens of charr who came to greet him on his way across Atholma, many of which dropped whichever task was at hand to do so. They offered him food, gave him praise, and generally all other manner of attention. 

He had been the talk of the town since the assault on the Inquest. The human who could become an unstoppable effigy of wood and might. A group of cubs even begged him to do it again just so they could see. Unfortunately he had to let them down on the count that he could barely utter the first line of a psalm, much less channel the most sacred of spells ever taught to humanity. 

After what seemed like twice the amount of time it should've taken, Dhamon made it back to his humble little hut on the side of a mossy cliff. The ascent up the ramp was about as bad as he imagined it to be. Sighing, he took his glaive off his back and haphazardly tossed it in the corner. He took the same straps that fastened his weapon to his body and used a spare sheet of jute cloth to make himself something of a crude mantle. The pressure on his wounds didn't feel spectacular, but it was better than the torn robes smacking into it over and over. 

Even after resting for the better part of an entire day, Dhamon took a hard seat on the floor and leaned against a pile of stacked baskets, contending with the onslaught of emotions that mingled around in his skull at any given moment. It was enough that he just spent a couple minutes staring at nothing, rapping his fingers against a bushel of dried, unprocessed long grass. 

Time was slipping through his fingers disconcertingly quickly, almost like he was still laying on that mat just dreaming away. He...probably needed a reset. Something to take the slog of today and the rush of yesterday off. For this, he reached behind some piles of wood and pulled out that bottle of spirits he hadn't yet touched. Then, he grunted as he stood, and took off back down the slope he'd worked so hard to climb up. 

Gwynn was home. At some point during his long slumber she awoke and cleaned herself off from the battle, but not much else apparently. She was cooking dinner--or rather, dinner was cooking and she was staring off into space much like he had been. Her eye lit up like Dwayna's star when she saw him, though. 

"Oh! They let you walk out of there already?" 

"Not really. It's just they were foolish enough to give me back the ability to walk out of there. Either way, Melandru seems to have nudged things so that I somehow made it out in one piece. And I have you to thank for that as well, among the other lifebinders. You were the first person to start healing me, I heard. Probably saved my life right then and there." 

With a renewed vigor, the black charr shifted right back into grilling a charred salmon. "You're a damn idiot, you know that? Walking directly into the line of fire again and again. I could've taken a few shots and shaken it off just fine, you know. You were bound to take too harsh of a hit at some point. I just..." she paused, fish half-hung in the air. "I just didn't expect what ended up happening. Those asura, they have more power than their size leads you to believe. You looked like you were invincible." 

"Then I suppose it's a good thing that the elders have agreed to only strengthen patrols to keep them penned in." Dhamon took his usual spot by the side of the door, gritting his teeth as he came down. "It's a dangerous thing to channel a god's power. Not just for your body, but for your mind. You lose yourself somewhere along the way. When my master taught me that technique, he urged me to never use it unless it was absolutely necessary. I had never seen him so adamant about a lesson before. Now I am starting to see the wisdom in his words." 

Gwynn went on to prepare both their plates in her usual way, with hers practically stacked to the ceiling. "While I'm incredibly eager to hear what you'd have to say about such an incredible spell, as I'm sure you've already guessed I would be, I think it would be best to put that conversation off. Though I do have one question." 

He took the plate and realized that he probably hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. When the steam came up from the salmon and hit his nose, it was like an ox slammed him in the gut and twisted his insides in a knot. Salivating, he withheld his hunger and looked up. "What would that be, then?" 

"You say you lose yourself while you're transformed in such a way. Still, there was a point where I saw you falter. That asura at the bridge, who decided to stand and fight you rather than run with the rest of his kin. I know the way that the eagle moves when it swoops at its prey. You were about to kill him, but something stopped you." 

"Oh. That." In truth, he barely remembered it. That whole section of time was a violent blur in his head, punctuated only by that sudden slam in his chest that nearly stole his life away. "I mean, don't get me wrong. The teachings of Melandru aren't exactly the most loving of scriptures. I personally have no issue with taking lives when it is so clearly an act of righteousness. Having lived among the Olmakhan, I just thought that...Well, if you want me to be brutally honest, I thought of how you would want me to act. Simple as that." 

"Mm," was her only response, and after a slight pause, she sat down to eat. 

That was as good a sign as any to start digging in. Maybe it was the ravenous hunger talking, but this meal almost immediately seemed to be the best one he'd had yet. The meat was cooked so perfectly and was so tender that it was almost certainly far higher quality than anything he could've gotten in anywhere but the priciest places in Divinity's Reach. He must've slammed through a third of the first filet before he remembered to take a breath. 

"You're not sick of fish yet?" she found room to ask. 

"Sweet Dwayna I will never be sick of fish." It wasn't until he was almost finished with the first fish that he realized his mouth wasn't bleeding. "Hey. Wait a minute. Did you pick the bones out of these already? Or have I just made a terrible mistake and have to go back to the healers?" 

She suppressed a chuckle and shook her head. "No, your cuts are clean. I made sure of that already. I was going to bring them out to you, but I guess I didn't have to walk farther than across my own home." 

He had to set his plate aside entirely for that one. His heart shouldn't be jumping like that. "You are- I'm serious, I feel like I've barely done a single thing to repay you for all the hospitality you've shown me. Ever since I arrived down to our very first meeting, it's been a complete constant. I probably wouldn't have even been allowed to come into the village if not for you. If I don't do something soon, I'm going to start feeling guilty." With that, he took the overly-flowery bottle of alcohol and set it down in front of her. "I'm just going to start paying that forward now. You know, as a little celebration." 

Her brow raised. "You were going to share that with me anyway, weren't you?" 

"Just pretend that I wasn't. Make me feel better." 

"Pfft. Fine." Gwynn didn't have to reach too far for more kitchenware. Some comparatively-sized wooden bowls would serve as their glasses, though it was a shame they didn't have any ice. "You know I'm not much for these kinds of drinks. The wines we had at the festival were about as far as the Olmakhan go, but I see humans prefer everything to be more...caustic. What's this made of?" 

He shrugged. "Dunno. It's elonian as far as I know, so maybe fermented iboga petals or something? I have no idea how they make their drinks there. I barely have an idea of how Kryta makes her own." 

The portions she poured were charr-sized. She took a brief whiff of hers and scrunched her snout. "Oh this isn't very good, is it?" 

"Hope you weren't expecting a refined taste." 

Dhamon wasn't particularly manly when it came to booze. That made it all the better when he didn't have to hide that fact, because the monster that was more than twice his body weight sputtered and coughed, cringing far worse than he ever did. 

"Hey, it's not THAT bad. It tastes like the slag from an asuran experiment but at least it goes down smooth." 

"Smooth?!" The charr scrunched her face up and huffed. "It's about as smooth as a rock gazelle's horns! I didn't swallow it wrong on purpose, it just surprised me is all. Wipe that smug look off your face, I could drink you into the ground if I wanted." 

"I know. Don't worry, I know. I've been beaten by a charr in that regard before. I'm prepared to be beaten by a charr again." 

The spirits only burned half of his taste buds off. The rest were still very much pleased with the remainder of the meal, to the point that he went straight back to scarfing it all down in spite of the uneasy churning that the booze put in him. It was a real shame when he finally did run out of food. In protest of his empty plate, he finished off his drink and poured yet more into the cup. By that point, Gwynn was already on her third, a dumb smile full of teeth already plastered onto her face. Thinking back on it, she really didn't drink much at all during that festival, did she? 

"It's not so bad once you get used to it," she said, taking yet another casual swig. His time as the hardiest drinker had already ended. "Perhaps you're right about the iboga petals. It does have a distinctly earthly taste to it. What do you think?" 

"I think that you might have a more refined palate then me." 

Shrugging, Gwynn poured her fourth cup, nearly reaching the bottom of the bottle already. "That could also be true. Whatever it is, I have to commend how straightforward humans think. This liquid was created with a single goal and it achieves it as quickly and efficiently as possible." 

"Gods, ain't that the truth," he said, leaned back against the wall. "I gotta hand it to that Sumna guy, this is some fairly top-notch stuff. Not that I'm much of a drinker, but after these last few days I'm more than thankful for it. Helps dull the pain a bit as well." 

"Your wound is doing well, isn't it? You managed to walk over here, after all. Does it still hurt? I've got some salve that might be able to numb it more if need be." 

He shooed her away. "I don't. Trust me, the lifebinders were trying to use everything under the sun on me. I had them save the best for the others, I never really had too much of a problem with pain. Besides, I was told that a few daily visits and some physical therapy would fix me up good as new before long." 

"Before how long?" she asked. 

"Before I have to depart for Amnoon. Just in time, about. I don’t think that this incredible stroke of luck was just a coincidence." 

Now that booze was in her system, Gwynn had a difficult time disguising the disappointment in her face, even beneath the smile she flashed him. "That's good." 

"You don't seem particularly enthusiastic about it." 

"No, I am. I'm just glad you're still alive. I've never seen such a grievous injury. I thought...I didn't think you would make it until we were already back home." 

Dhamon chuckled. "I saw you this morning, leaned up against a pillar like a pretzel. They'd never seen you so worried." 

"Why shouldn’t I be?! You nearly got yourself killed!" Gwynn blurted out, her whiskers twitching. She immediately attempted to reel herself back in. "Oh nature curse you. I've underestimated that gift the captain gave you." 

"Yeah. Wouldn't be the first time I've done that, either," the dervish said with another laugh. She was definitely right. These cups weren't built for human hands. Any more than these two and he would've been in for a rough time. Melandru knows how deep Gwynn could really go, or if three and a half of these things was enough to kick a charr to their knees. She did have a bit of a sway, didn't she? 

Her face went sour. "Quit looking at me like that! I used to chug down entire barrels of root wine to spite my mother. I haven't done this in a long time, but I still have the muscle memory." 

Putting his hands up in surrender, Dhamon finished the last of his drink and set the bowl down for good, a dizzy warmth starting to cloud his mind. "Fine, fine. Don't get your tail in a twist. I was just poking a little fun is all. You get very easily flustered when you're drunk." 

"Yes, I know! That's why I don't do it often." 

"But you'll do it in front of me." 

She huffed. "Not if you're going to pester me about it." 

"But it's not pestering! Unless you feel like I'm pestering you, in which case I could leave if you wanted. I'm not the most agreeable person when I'm like this, I'll admit." 

"No!" The charr's hand extended to stop him from getting up, though he barely began to move even jokingly. "It's fine. Really. You don't need to go. It would be a heinous waste of good ale if I couldn't spend it with someone. I would be more upset with you if you left me here on my own." 

Don't you dare say- "I'm sorry, I really can't help myself. I just think it's cute of you." 

Why the fuck did you say that out loud. 

Gwynn didn't really react, which should've made it better but instead made it a dozen times worse. When she did finally move, it was to bring the whole bottle to her lips and chug down the last few gulps that were left, an odorous sigh spilling from past her teeth when she finally finished. Her weight slumped down in a way that forced her to curl up into that half-shapen crescent that only an oversized cat could make. She glanced off in the same way as one, too--only partly interested in the subject as much as she was in the unchanging world around her. 

Well might as well fucking double down at this point. "What? I'm just being honest. Did that overheat you or something?" 

"Yes, you did," she quietly answered back. 

"At being called cute? Aren't you like--I don't know how ages in charr years. Older than me in any case." 

She fidgeted around a bit more, unable to suppress her tail's flicking. "Alcohol does a lot to the context, you know. Do you honestly believe I've ever been on the receiving end of that word? Just look at me." 

His heart jumped into his throat. Sweet Melandru give him strength, they had only just now finished drinking and this was already happening. "Would you like another one of my honest answers?" 

"Please don't. I can't handle that sort of thing right now." 

"Hm. Then I'll just save it for later," he said with a grin, and a thankful silence fell. 

The couple of minutes that went by gave his inebriated mind some much-needed time to catch up. In truth, it had been at least a couple years since he last had this much to drink. He forgot that it, uh...loosened his lips a little more than he cared to admit. Things that he'd have probably stowed away in the very back of his head tended to just slip straight off the top of his tongue without any warning. Things pertaining to how much he loved spending time with this particular charr. Still, he couldn't keep letting the alcohol sidetrack him. There was something else on the tip of his tongue. 

"You don't want me to leave, do you?" 

"Yes, that's what I said. I wouldn't have gotten drunk if I thought you were going to just go home." 

He sat up straight. "I mean the village." 

"Oh." Another empty space stretched on. Her tail had stopped slapping at the floor, that's how he knew the mood had shifted. "I will not let my emotions be an obstacle. This is the natural progression of things." 

"Gwynn, it's okay. Just say what you mean. I was honest with you, so now it's your turn to be honest with me." 

Though he couldn't see it, he very much heard her claws curl into a fist against the floor. "Why should I be? It wouldn't change anything. Nothing ever changes. It's better to just move on and forget about it." 

"The Olmakhan rallied and pushed back against a threat," he said. "I don't know if you would've banded together that way before. That seemed like a change, didn't it?" 

"Don't mistake that for change, Dhamon. That didn't change anything. The asura got their punishment, but now the elders will let them sit in their obsidian towers and do nature knows what for however long they feel. Don't expect the Olmakhan to follow up on their victory, because they will not. They'll just wait for the next young charr to get maimed or killed so that we can finally justify war again." 

Suddenly Dhamon very much wished he wasn't caught in a drunken stupor. He crossed his legs and leaned forward on his knees. "But you're already self-aware about the problem. The others respect you a great deal, too. I bet if another charr had volunteered to lead that assault they wouldn't have gained half the followers as you did. Surely you can instill some-" 

"I want to leave this place," Gwynn blurted out over him. She whipped her head towards him, but kept her eye to the floor at the same time. "I always have. You wanna know what I feel? I feel nothing but envy and cowardice. I've probably been a coward for longer than you've been alive, and I'm envious that I've met someone who's like me only for them to move on when I still can't! I'm stuck in this village, Dhamon! I don't get to leave." 

A wave of clarity. He exhaled, the words of his thoughts rising like droplets of oil in a sea. "What's been stopping you, friend?" 

"Myself!" she shouted at first, but recoiled physically and returned to the solidarity of her curled form. "No. No, that's too selfish. There's plenty of reasons why I'm still here. I'm an Olmakhan, I can't just abandon my people because I feel like it. I've trained almost the whole next generation of sandshifters just by myself. Not long from now I'll be an elder myself, and by that point there's no way I'll be allowed to leave. This is a hole I've already dug and have been lying in for years." 

"It's about your duty, then." 

Gwynn let her head hang. "My duty. Yes. That's the reason you're leaving for Amnoon, isn't it? You have to pay forward for your skills and protect your people. The reason I cannot travel is the same reason that you must. It's a duty we share." 

"Then I wouldn't be able to ask you to come along with me?" he said with a frown. 

"Dhamon, please!" she tried not to yell. "If I was able to leave on that ship whenever it came around, I would have done it already! We have our own responsibilities! I would not ask you to stay here just to satiate my own selfish desires. Obviously I would expect the same in return." 

"But I do want to stay here. It's that or I leave for Elona to answer the call of my kin. Either way, I am happy with the outcome. I believe that the difference between you and me is that you don't want to be in Atholma anymore. You've wanted to leave the nest but never could." 

Another empty moment sprouted from the final echo of his voice and started to grow on and on. The charr angled herself away, a sleek mound of muscle and shiny black fur. Her breathing had started to falter. Her back rose much quicker than it fell, each exhalation coupled with shudders she could hardly suppress. In that moment which sprawled for far too long, Dhamon didn't know what to do. The dizziness quickly found a way to take back its hold over him when he wasn't concentrating. What could he do, really? 

"I'm going to die here." 

For a creature as massive and imposing as Gwynn, Dhamon almost didn't believe that such a tiny voice could come from her throat. And yet, it did. His arm wandered forward on its own, reaching for the charr despite the distance between them. 

"This island will be my grave," she continued almost inaudibly. "I will never be able to see the world. They'll bury me next to my mother and father in the Sky Cavern and my bones will sit there for the rest of eternity. This land will be the only one I ever know. Nature dammit, I've never even seen snow. I've always wanted to." 

"Gwynn." He got on his knees. 

"You're one to talk. You've already traveled all over Tyria and you're barely much older than a cub. I have been trapped here for nearly my whole life. Every minute of my youth was wasted dreaming of other places, but I only ever dreamt. Seasons turned to years. Years turned into decades. My mother said that I would grow out of it someday. I've been waiting for that day, but the feeling has only gotten worse. Now it's...Now I can't..." 

Her voice finally gave way to sobs. They didn't stop when he got close, and they didn't stop when he placed a hand on her side. If anything, she began to quiver even worse as his skin met with bristled fur. Now was not the time to wonder how such an imposing figure could seem so small. It was the side of him that would normally be shoved away that took control in this inebriated state--the one that urged his hand to stroke at her fur, and to fold his legs underneath him to lay down beside her. That intimate part of his mind conquered his sense of reason like a king would plant a boot on the chest of its worst enemy. 

He found himself in something that was nowhere near an embrace, more just that their bodies were partially touching in the stillness. Even still, it meant something to be so close together when there was so much room to be apart. That was what mattered. There was no solving this here tonight, but he was there anyway, even when a drunken drowsiness started to come to him. 

The two of them stayed this way for the rest of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

The same trek through these towering walls of the stone and moss felt different. It was in the way that the sun touched the tops of the rocks, or the way that the babbling creek carried through the narrow passage. Melandru's blessings didn't speak to him the same that they did the first time. 

It was no wonder, with this heavy heart he was carrying. There was no telling if this would be the last time he saw this little vista before he left. He’d attempt to commit it to memory, but there were already a hundred distractions racing through his head, including the presence of the one that crawled up the slopes on all fours behind him. 

The pool was exactly the same as they last left it. A fine mist dispensed from the small waterfall rolled over the surface, cooling the air from the afternoon sunlight that hung directly over them. The trees still provided some shade, but spotty beams of warmth still poked through the canopy and flashed over his eyes. The same penetrating lights bounced off the shimmering surface of the pond and back at him from a different angle. It gave the impression of serenity, but the turbulence between the two that entered the grove was anything but. 

Continuing the trend, they said nothing as they tossed away their outermost articles of clothing onto the safety of a nearby mossy boulder. Gwynn kept her gaze trained on the horizon as she felt the weight of the signet blade in her hand. The first sound she made since they left was a grumble in the deep of her throat. 

"We'll try without the training tool today. Endurance is key when you're working on a particularly grievous injury, or when you're attempting to heal on the fly. Failing to completely heal a wound may cause it to reopen, undoing the effort already spent." 

Dhamon swallowed the urge to groan. "Let's just do this on the water's edge. I don't want to soak these bandages anymore than I need to. Gawr waggled his claw at me about how careful I should be with getting it wet. Or healing it too often without letting my own metabolism have a turn. And about a great many other things, for that matter" 

She hummed in affirmation and found a rocky outcrop beside the creek to settle down on, still refusing to look directly at the dervish. "This will do." 

It took him a moment to reach a comfortable position on the moss-cushioned stone. Only their feet were submerged in the chilling waters, heels digging into the bed of pebbles that made up the shallows. 

Without that current swelling around him, and with the palpable tension that was still hanging in the air, meditation was admittedly far more difficult than it had any right to be. The winds refused to even admit his presence at first. After some time and a great deal of focus, Dhamon eventually managed to push the material world from his mind and feel the ebb and flow of the wilds once more. Though the latent magicks of the earth twirled between his fingers, Gwynn's own muttered prayers threatened to topple his concentration right over. Just her voice at all, really. 

"Let us begin," she said, swiping the edge of the blade over her palm without a second thought. 

He took hold of her paw and went to work. A soft glow radiated out from his fingertips to mend the cut, all the while he ignored the nagging feeling that bloomed in his chest. Another swift slice that she grit her teeth against was followed by another adept attempt at closing the skin. Again, and again, over and over in a continuous streak until he finally faltered and couldn't heal anymore. It took a dozen cuts before Gwynn had to finish the job herself. 

The charr gave a short shrug. "Your control has gotten stronger. Not surprising, coming from you. I can only manage around twenty in a row myself, but the better lifebinders can go for longer than they can hold their own breaths. Take a short break and we'll start again." 

More begrudging silence. Not even the supernatural fatigue that started to burn in Dhamon's muscles compared to the agony of that quiet. The stream's pleasant bubbling sounded more like laughter the longer he listened. There was no doubt in his mind that this simply could not continue. 

"Ready?" Gwynn asked him, but came down with the knife regardless of what his answer would've been. 

Uttering a brief word to Melandru in preparation, he grabbed her and brought a healing light to his fingers once more. His mind started to wander once the rhythm became easier to maintain. He used that opportunity to speak up about what was on it. 

"I think you should come with me to Elona." 

Slice. Mend. Slice. Mend. Her fingers hardly twitched at this point, the pain nothing more than afterthought to the storm that was growing behind that moonlit eye of hers. It was a statement she had clearly already been thinking about, and one she seemed to know he would eventually utter. 

"You know I can't," she went on to say, not a single lapse in concentration. 

"But you should." 

"That isn't how this works, Dhamon." 

Slice. Mend. Slice. His wind gave out, leaving a bleeding gash that the charr quickly brushed over and turned back to unharmed flesh. The pool of blood that had started to accumulate streaked down the rocks and leaked into the stream. An even briefer pause than the last soon fell away to the next set. 

He started to grip at her knuckles more firmly. "You have been waiting for your chance all this time. I'm trying to say that it's here. A better opportunity isn't going to come later if you wait now." 

"That's not what this is about," she nearly snarled back. "My place is here with the Olmakhan. I was born here. I was raised here. I am a pillar of the whole village. Atholma needs me, and I need it. I've already gone over this." 

Slice. Mend. Faster, now. Don't lose pace. 

"You've already done your part. There's still so much waiting for us out there. I've hardly seen a fraction of what Tyria has to offer, and you haven't even started. If you don't start now, then when?" 

Slice. Mend. "Never. I was never meant to start in the first place." 

"Gwynn. You're running out of time." 

"I am NOT!" 

The charr surged forward as rage flared across her face. Just as soon as that fury came, it dissipated beneath an empty visage, and she settled back down into place. All attention turned back to her open palm. She hadn't just given it a gingerly slice, but dragged the blade straight across and down to the bone while in the midst of that fit. The dagger clattered to the gravel. She recoiled and clutched at her hand, the pain flooding in once the shock passed. 

"Ow! Nature dammit!" her shouting exploded over the grotto. Gwynn twisted away from him and tried to heal herself, but the magicks of nature refused to obey her command. "Aah, come on! Not now!" 

"Your prayers fell away. You're unfocused," he calmly said, getting to his knees. "Here. Let me see." 

"This isn't part of a lesson, Dhamon!" 

"Obviously. Quit overreacting and let me heal it already." 

Realization rolled across her eye. She let her shoulders slump and held out her hand towards him, a sigh spilling from her nostrils. The cut certainly would’ve been a nasty one if left alone. Nothing he couldn't fix with a bit of effort, but his previous exertions were apparent in his attempt. His lips repeated a breathless hymn as he clutched at the wound. 

Gwynn winced, her fingers easily curling around his whole hand. It was true that he was tired, but it wasn't even halfway enough to stop him from pushing through. He pressed on an extra couple of seconds after the skin had closed just to make sure. 

"That's much better. Thank you." Gwynn tried to pull away, but he reassured his grip with both hands. "Um. What are you-..?" 

"Gwynn, I'm serious. I don't want to leave you behind. If it comes to it, then I won't take that ship to Amnoon after all." 

An exasperated breath slipped through her teeth. "Why wouldn't you go? That's- that's just foolish! You even said it yourself that it was your duty! Don't you dare turn your back on your people just because of me!" 

"Why not? You've already turned your back on yourself." 

"That's-!" the charr choked. "That's clearly different. I'm doing what I need to. One day I will die happy knowing that I've done all I could to help the Olmakhan." 

Dhamon finally let her hand fall. "I don't know how you can sit there and tell me such a bold-faced fucking lie." 

Her mouth moved, but no words came out. The silence had taken its rightful hold of the pond, yet took on a pensive edge rather than the malicious one that existed earlier. The babbling was a harmony now--a song of truth, conducted by the waving branches of the trees that let snippets of sunlight brush over them. The veil had been pierced and their feelings laid raw and in the open. Well, most of their feelings. There was one that neither had quite acknowledged. 

That is, until Gwynn spoke up next. "You didn't really mean that, did you? About staying in Atholma? What would make you say something like that?" 

"You," he replied, staring off into the refracted light at the bottom of the riverbed. 

"But really. Why?" 

"Gods, you're gonna make me say it, huh?" Dhamon steeled himself like he was about to cast a spell just to utter something that wasn't even an incantation. "Because I don't want you to be stuck here on Dajkah until you die alone. You've already put it off this long. Any longer and you'll end up seeing the remainder of your life from just inside these shores.” 

He scratched at the back of his head. “In fact, I was hoping I'd be able to see some of those new lands with you by my side. I love the way your face lights up. I really, truly do." 

Crunching pebbles. She closed the fist that she leaned on. "I can't leave." 

"How long are you going to keep saying that?" He pivoted around, leaning just a few inches closer despite the already short distance between them. "If you're scared, that's fine. Nobody ever said it wasn't frightening." 

"I'm not afraid." 

"Then what have you been for the entirety of your life?" 

"Resp-..." onsible, probably, if she hadn't cut herself off partway through. Gwynn turned her eye towards him and let the empty space roll on. 

There was no more charr, no more humanity. No Olmakhan or legion. There wasn't even a Tyria out there outside of this little snippet of Melandru's heaven. The only inhabitants of this pocket universe were just the two kindred souls at the edge of the water. Just Gwynn and Dhamon. 

When the dervish lifted his arms to bridge the gap between them like the way two droplets of water crossed paths on a window pane and combined. She was hesitant, but the draw was too great, and soon her own arms went beyond his and towards the man they were connected to. They came together in a loose embrace where Dhamon could barely get a hold of the charr while she could practically envelope him in her forearms. Their foreheads met in the middle. Pause. Breaths were withheld, lungs waiting nervously for the next move. 

"Run away with me," Dhamon whispered, not a secret left in his body. "Let's go anywhere we want. Let's save the world. I will personally show you what snow looks like. The edge of the Shiverpeaks lies just north of Amnoon--I guarantee it's there. Winter's only just ended." 

Her eye was closed, but it still felt like she could glare right through him. "I can't just up and go. The others. The elders. What would they think? They all count on me in one way or another." 

"Who cares what they think? They call what you have an obsession and point fingers at you for wanting to know a world outside of the Olmakhan. They're still just as afraid as they were when Kalla's war broke the legions. But you're not afraid like they are." 

"I am very fucking afraid," she whispered back in that deep, intimate voice that charr somehow managed to make. 

He brought his fingers to the side of her face and ran them behind her ears, gracing the tiny horns along her jawbone. "You don't have to be afraid. I promise you that from the bottom of my heart." 

Gwynn raised her head and leaned forward. Dhamon knew this part well--he'd been thinking about this same position for years. He relented his left side and craned his neck over her right shoulder, curving around the bend of her neck as best he could. A rough mane covered half his face and slipped over his lips, but the feeling of her cheek rubbing against his back was more than worth the minor discomfort. And now he was finally able to reach around her fully, his fingers just barely connecting behind the wall of bone and muscle that she was. 

A nervous chuckle rumbled through her frame and into his. Her breath tickled at his shoulder blades. "You already knew how to do that, huh..?" 

"Someone once told me that charr had too many pointy bits to kiss, so they did this instead." 

"Oh nature preserve me," Gwynn quietly sighed, pulling away and returning to their original position. "Well what is it that humans are supposed to do, then? Granted my 'pointy bits' don't get in the way." 

He never really knew what it would be like to actually kiss a charr. Maeve didn't exactly afford him the opportunity to back then. The dervish cautiously brought his lips towards hers, his hands guiding Gwynn's snout and sharp parts alike. Going in from the front was only going to give up a row of razor teeth to contend with, so he went upwards, touching the top of her mouth just near where her whiskers began. The fur there was extremely fine. Her lips twitched, and after an experimental moment she took command and brought her mouth equal to his own. There was a distinct tenderness in how she maneuvered her teeth so that they only just grazed him, and instead mostly felt her curious barbed tongue. 

Ten claws traced down the skin of his back. Startled, Dhamon nearly impaled his bottom lip on a tooth as he jumped. A playful huff of hot air blasted over his face while Gwynn went on to judge his own physique. It hadn't occurred to him that a charr might find his body as pleasing as he found theirs. That made him all the more surprised when she slipped by his cheek and buried the tip of her snout into the crook of his neck. Something between a purr and a growl rumbled so loudly by his ear that he could feel it bounce around in his skull. 

In that case, he would take what he wanted, too. His hands parted from one another to sift through the forest of fur, clutching at the tensions that rippled just beneath her skin. Starting at the lower back, trailing up to the raw strength of her shoulders--so broad that he could scarcely find his place. To the trapezius, back down to the biceps hidden just beneath the pitch-brown blackness of her coat. Around to the tricep and slowly towards the armpit, advancing to the ribcage, at which point Gwynn snickered and pulled away. The rift was short lived, as the charr immediately placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him into the ground. 

A sharp pain erupted from beneath Dhamon's bandages. He tried and failed to imprison his groan behind his teeth, wincing away. It'd be a lie to say that he'd never seen a charr move so fast, but Gwynn definitely was up there in how quickly she backed off. 

"I forgot, I-" she stuttered out. "Did I hurt you? Are you okay?" 

Even with the harmless chuckle in his throat, a stab of panic did pass through his heart when he looked down and saw smears of blood all over his torso. That went away rather quickly. "You forgot to clean your hand off." 

"Ah! Damn, you're right!" she twisted around to do just that, but her right eye was trained on him. "But you're okay, aren't you? I didn't reopen anything did I?" 

He shook his head, smiling from the bed of pebbles. "No, I don't think so. It'd be alright even if you did. I wouldn't mind too much." 

Gwynn shook herself partially dry and came back up to him. Her form easily eclipsed his own, yet she still set herself just above his chest, supported by her elbows and careful not to rest nearly any of her body weight on him. "You should mind. I would mind in your place." 

"What for? A little pain never hurt anybody." 

She gave a scoff, then dragged her forearms forward so that her fingers could reach his hair. "I think it has, actually. And I wouldn't dare try to hurt you." 

Another bubble of laughter left him, but this one was a bit more nervous than the last. "Yeah, about that. There's a bit of a reason that I wouldn't mind. A bit of a confession, honestly." 

"Hm?" 

"This scar?" He wiggled his way into pointing a finger at his left shoulder, tracing over the bite mark that was permanently etched onto his skin. "That wasn't from a skale." 

"Drake," she corrected him. 

"I mean, shit. Case in point. I kinda lied about that." Dhamon averted his gaze, which was difficult considering most of his field of view was Gwynn. "It was from a charr. A lover I had some years ago. I guess it goes without saying that I've had one, seeing the, uh...position I'm in right now." 

One claw pulled away and touched at the old wound. She stayed there for a moment, eye fixated on Maeve's lasting impressions. "A lover did this to you?" 

"Well, she did more than that, but that's the only scar that stuck around. I had to get treatment from medics in the middle of the Black Citadel, said I had gotten into a brawl with one of-" 

The words on the tip of his tongue were extinguished in an instant as Gwynn brought her head low and rested the bridge of her nose on the remnants of the scars. There she stayed, slowly breathing, face-down on the curve of his shoulder as the creek babbled on. The sight alone did something to him. It took the air right out of his lungs and sent a flood of chicken skin across his arms. His heart pumped to a confused melody of joy and awe. The pressure from her head, gentle as she made it, still felt like it weighed the same as all the shiverpeaks combined. 

"No lover would ever do this," she spoke into his rib-cage. "It doesn't matter if she was legion. Don't call her that." 

Dhamon just now remembered to inhale. He reached up to touch her face, to which she raised her head and tilted it just enough to look at him in return. Then, he wrapped an arm around her neck, lifted himself off the ground, and went in to plant an inaccurate kiss near the side of her mouth. She returned the favor with an equal messiness as she slid her forearms over to support his head and neck. The dance of their lips, tongue on raspy tongue, fangs carefully grazing at his cheek. His heart thumped away like a carpenter's hammer, pounding at the ache in his side until it was nothing but a faint annoyance in the background. 

The last of their clothing was tossed to gods know where. It didn't make much of a difference, considering they were most of the way to that point in the first place. The only significant change was the places where Gwynn let her body weight dip down. She had dragged herself forward to where he was forced to crane his head to continue their ineffective kissing, allowing more plush sections of fur to brush over his lower body, drawing out a moan that surprised even him. He felt the corners of her mouth curl upward as she repeated the motion, grinding up and down his length. 

"It's been so long since I've done this," she huffed over him. "Nice to know that males tend to be the same from both our kinds. So needy." 

"Hey. Don't be mean. I don't get much attention with my weird tastes." 

She pulled herself up his body again, forcing an involuntary thrust out of him. "It's a good thing I'm here with my own weird tastes then, isn't it?" 

More teasing. Gwynn was going to draw this out for long as she could, judging from the smug grin stuck to her face. Dhamon didn't have the attention span to do much other than hold himself against her and bury his face into the side of her neck. There wasn't much anyone could do at the mercy of such a creature. The sheer enormity of the person that was pressing down into him, coupled with how pent-up he had become, was staggering enough as it was. And yet, she was so tender--so deliberate. It was no mistake when his cock finally sprung up between her legs, sandwiched between two well-furred thighs. There was space for him to put in his own efforts, though just barely. 

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" she asked. 

He stuttered out a reply. "F-fuck. My pride, maybe..." 

"Really?" 

"No, you overgrown housecat. I'm kidding. I quite like it down here, in fact. You smell like fresh-turned soil and beach sand." 

Dhamon paid for that insult when she squeezed her legs together on him. Her nose pressed into the side of his head. "You smell like sweat and sex." 

"Ah- Is that bad?" 

"Not when I cause it," she said, her lowered voice was so guttural that he felt it in his arms before his ears. "I've smelled it on you before. In this same spot, last time. Perhaps you thought you could hide it?" 

"That was your fault. You're one that thought it'd be fine to just strip completely naked out of the blue. How else was I supposed to feel, seeing your bare body like that?" 

A claw fell back out of his line of sight. Gwynn started to shift over him, pulling upright to suspend herself over him. Legs spread apart, she angled his length and slid down too quickly for him to prepare. His legs spasmed, a torrent of feeling shooting through him as he thrusted the rest of the distance for her. Gently, carefully, she groaned and came to a seat over his pelvis. It was as hot and wet inside a charr as he remembered. Getting used to the heat wasn't particularly necessary, not with every other piece of stimuli bombarding him. 

Gwynn seemed to shiver, her snout pointed up towards the treetops. She came down to loom over him again. "Why don't you show me how you were supposed to feel?" 

Finally, Dhamon dared to look where he refused to look before, and touched where he would've never thought to touch. His hands and eyes were as ravenous as a pack of hounds. Over the curves of her abdomen, where a powerful core was hidden away beneath a glossy sheen of midnight. To the nubs of nerves hidden beneath that controlled her gasps and twitches. Along the path of border of colors where the boldest of blacks softened into a humble grey--down from the vulnerable stomach and around the innermost of her thighs. All the while she straddled him, her tail slapping to and fro over his legs, the clawed hand not occupied with holding herself aloft taking its own tour of his body. 

It was heaven. Perhaps a bit too sensitive, though. Dhamon couldn't help but thrust at the wrong times, throwing off their rhythm and putting a pause to their game. Gwynn had trouble keeping upright, huffing and puffing with lust but still at the mercy of her own aged joints. They picked up the pace to compensate, alternating between breathing too much and forgetting to breathe at all. Their hips eventually found a melody to be the metronome, and they became lost in the music. A strand of spittle fell from her gaping maw onto his chest. He barely even noticed. 

However long that ecstacy lasted, the moment it ended made it feel like half an hour had passed in the blink of an eye. A pained grunt left Gwynn's mouth instead of a moan as she angled herself to topple over next to him rather than overtop. Both her hands crossed to grasp at the wrist of the other. Gasping for breath, she glanced at him sideways, saliva still shining on the edge of her apologetic smile. 

"Maybe I'm...Maybe I got a little too old to do that...for as long as I just did," she managed to say. "Sorry. My legs weren't having any of it..." 

He dragged himself over to connect their noses together. "You should have said something earlier. You didn't have to go for so long if it was hurting you." 

"I didn't even notice until it became too much. Between you and...Well, it doesn't matter. How about you take the reins for a bit?" 

Dhamon certainly didn't need to be told twice. Planting a brief kiss to the side of her mouth, he brushed away the pebbles that had embedded themselves into his back and maneuvered his way around to her legs. His fingers followed a teasing trail from her ankle, tickling the contours of her flesh up to her haunches. There he positioned himself, gladly watching her squirm a bit beneath his playful touch, her toe claws kicking and stabbing at the air. She covered her face and looked off to the side while her tail expressed for her by whipping at his knees. There wasn't much time to fool around, though. Not when he was full-mast and she was right there. 

He found her nethers amidst the softest of fur and angled himself in. His intentions were to go slowly, but the pleasure shot him forward down to the hilt, and the excess of natural lubrication more than allowed it. Another purring growl vibrated through into him. Stopping to readjust to her white-hot insides, Dhamon reffirmed his posture and grabbed at Gwynn by the waist. Then, as gradually as he could, he started to hump into her. 

"Dhamon-!" Her hands went to clutch at her lower stomach. A long sigh spilled from her nostrils. "Sky above, I- I feel like I've been waiting for you all my life." 

"So it's not just me then, huh?" he managed to say as he forgot how to control his own breathing. 

"Just hurry up! Nature forsake me, how does a creature like you feel so big?" 

It was overwhelming. His attempts at establishing a pattern were broken up again and again, concentration shattered by the convulsions that shot up and down his entire being. Beads of sweat started to accumulate on his brow, burning at his eyes and sticking to his skin. There was a hollow flame in his chest that raged like a wildfire. Faster, faster still, his hips slamming into her like the ocean's cruel waves. She responded in kind and pressed into him, their quivering almost in-tandem. Muscles squeezed and relaxed. Taloned fingers dug holes in the gravel before returning to randomly grasp at patches of fur around her chest. He was already holding on for dear life as it stood. 

Gwynn's interspaced whimpers pierced through the howl of the blood in his ears. Her legs folded behind him and urged him to push deeper, a pair of dewclaws stabbing into his back and flexing involuntarily. The charr's wandering hands finally went to steady her quivering thighs. 

"F-faster!" she spat out the word like it was stuck to the back of her throat. "Don't you dare stop-!" 

He had no plans on stopping in the first place, but exhaustion was definitely starting to mount. His body ached for the release that he was too overstimulated to reach. On the other hand, Gwynn seemed to grow closer by the second, sputtering on her own spit as she twisted herself into a knot in her spasms. Her horns dragged through the dirt when she threw her head back, all that effort seeming to finally come to a head. She cried out and went to pin his hands in place along her hip bone. Something powerful within her began to squeeze. Everything started to contract, and as a choking gasp left her mouth, a steady pulse came to milk at him. 

Dhamon slowed down to catch his breath once that force began to weaken, but the claws in his back and over his wrists came down even harder. "Keep going! Don't stop until you've pumped me full!" 

"Ea...Easier said than f-fucking done!" 

It took every ounce of his willpower--every single inch of concentration. He converted the burning fatigue into strength, thrusting with all the might he could spare. His nails dug into the charr's skin as he pulled himself forward in a mindless rhythm. The heat began to mount. His chest started to hurt. Deafening sensations dulled in Gwynn's soaked wake and became palatable enough to drive him closer than he'd ever been. In a way, he almost dreaded the coming feeling, knowing full well how intense it was going to be. But he had passed the threshold to hold back moments ago already. His whole body went numb as he crested the most incredible hill in his life. 

"I love you," was what he vaguely heard Gwynn say while the rest of his senses were temporarily fried. The only thing to come out of his throat was a powerful grunt that scraped its sides. He thrust himself as deep as possible and pumped, again and again and again, the screaming ecstasy never quite seeming to end. His balls had pulled so close to his body that their insides felt all twisted up and painful, though the pain was almost completely swallowed up by the pleasure. Somehow it felt like he had gone half a minute before his body finally relented that there was simply nothing else to squeeze out of him. 

He slid out and immediately collapsed onto the charr's lower stomach. That was about when the afterglow was coupled by an assault of sensations he'd been ignoring. A paralyzing joy mixed with a debilitating tiredness, ensuring he'd be stuck in that position for as long as he had to recover. His world rose and fell with the constant motion of Gwynn's panting, who didn't seem much better off than he did. A buzzing haze like the drone of electricity had descended upon him cut through his budding thoughts before they could form. That was fine, honestly. What else was there to say? Actions like these spoke much louder than words. 

Like the action where Gwynn had continued to hold onto his hands even after it was all over. Limp as they both may be, she kept him square in the center in her palms, her long fingers lovingly enveloping his own. They both remained silent in the all-encompassing wake of their climaxes. This silence was not one born of the same indecision or anxiety as earlier. It was a confession and a promise wrapped up into one. A confession of loneliness, and a promise that there was a future after this. All that was left for her to do was not let go.


	9. Chapter 9

The day had come. 

Virgin daylight filtered through the mountains and touched the space just below the heavy canvas curtain of the doorway. Flocks of tropical birds carried a particular tune through the dawn, their songs an echo on the back of a southerly wind. Over the distance, the sounds of a new day for the Olmakhan could be heard. Unraveled rope nets and wood dragged against wood. Hammering, repairing, preparing. Far-off voices with unintelligible context going about their tasks with a relaxed enthusiasm. The sounds of Atholma. He would remember them fondly, even if he did return someday. 

Dhamon shifted anxiously beneath the shelter of his lover. Gwynn still had him trapped in her arms, curled protectively around the dervish while she continued to gently snore, chin nestled above his head. In all due honesty, he could probably die happy in a position like this--nearly smothered beneath several hundred pounds of plush fur and killing potential. He wouldn't mind if the moment lasted a few hours longer, either, but he had already spent that wish a few hours ago when he couldn't fall asleep. Now it was daybreak, and his time had run out. 

He had to leave this wonderful warmth at some point. No use in putting it off forever. With a bit of difficulty, Dhamon somehow managed to slip free from the iron embrace that surrounded him and snaked his way out from underneath the charr. Gwynn drowsily muttered something about how he better hurry back before curling into an even tighter ball. 

Of course he took the time to kiss between her horns before reaching for his newly-repaired robes. That tailor had even found a way to dye a fabric the same mint color as the original to make it look good as new. In the quiet cacophony of morning, the shuffling and clattering of buckles being pulled taut ruled above all. 

His refurbished polearm glistened from a stray beam of light. He scooped up the glaive and ran a finger over its polished surface. Senn's mother did an excellent job in spite of their low supplies of mithril. It was yet another kindness paid to him that he felt as though he hadn't quite earned. What a beautiful blade, though. Even if she didn't have a name after all these years. Seemed that Maeve was finally off the table, at least. 

Shooting a final glance at Gwynn after strapping himself up, Dhamon exited past the canvas doorway into the crisp morning air. Snippets of gales carrying salt spray scents whipped at his sandy hair and disguised the tangled mess that it was. He straightened out his beard as he wandered further into the village, taking all the time in the world to view the sights. 

Atholma's vertical walkways and vast fishing infrastructure sprawled on. Young warriors honing their skills on dummies were being led by a disgruntled-looking instructor. Even younger warriors were blasting sand and throwing rocks at one another on the beach, shouting of foul play. Craftsmen were wrapping up the last of their fine goods for the sales that would soon be made. The baobab trees loomed over the edge of the cliffs, casting waving shadows across the boot-paved grounds. 

"Hey." 

Someone called out to him. Their voice was vaguely familiar, but not nearly enough to stop from slipping his mind. Dhamon turned around and found that it was that fur merchant he had met on his first day here. Like then, she looked more bored than anything, even with the tradesmen coming later today. He made his way over. 

"Anything interest you now, Dhamon?" she said, reclining against the counter with an elbow for support beneath her chin. 

"You know I still don't have any money. These robes, great as that repair job was, still don't have any-" 

"Pockets?" she finished for him with a tired grin. Then, leaving her comfortable position, she reached behind one of the woven baskets on her side and tossed a heavy article of clothing at him. "I was kidding. I know you still don't have any money, but at least now you have some pockets. That doesn't normally come with 'em, but I made an exception." 

A cloak. Specifically a cloak made of a mountain hyena's pelt, layered with striped grey furs and stitched with a thick, durable sinew. True to her word, there were a symmetrical pair of pouches sewn into the inside layer. He swung it around to try it on, clasping it above his neck and letting it fall to the back of his knees. Not too heavy, and not too long, either. Excellent quality, obviously. 

"I know you're goin' towards a desert and all, but whatever," the merchant said, rolling her wrist. "Thought it might be useful if you ended up heading further north. Probably adds some extra protection, too, considering you're barely even wearing leather braces above that silky garbage. It's no wonder you almost died." 

Dhamon gave the cloak an extra push. "It's honestly perfect, I don't know what to say. You didn't have to go this far." 

"Eh. Everyone else's been doing it. Figured I might as well join in considering how little I've been doing these days. Spring's not the greatest season for my kind of business." 

"Well thank you anyway. I'll wear it with pride as I walk through Amnoon. I have no doubt it'll come in handy." 

The merchant returned to her bored recline. "Yeah, speaking of that. What's Gwynn doin'?" 

"Uh. What do you mean?" 

"It's what everybody's wonderin' about. She goin' with you or not?" 

Ah. There it was. The question on Atholma's mind--and his, for that matter. Oh mother of nature did he wish he knew the answer. Instead, all he could offer the merchant was a shrug. "You'd have to ask her yourself. She hasn't exactly...given me a clear answer." 

"Even after you two started..." The charr raised an eyebrow. "You know." 

"You can't confirm that." 

She shook her head. "Seriously? Sharl's known her since they were both cubs, and he's fairly adamant something's going on--says the last time Gwynn let anyone into her home overnight was damn near twenty years ago. That was the last time she had a mate, I hear. That was apparently one night. You've been in there three in a row. This is a small place, people notice." 

"Well fuck." He threw his arms to his sides. "I can't believe I always manage to let this happen. It's not like I'm trying to be conspicuous about it." 

"Hey. Don't get twisted up over nothing. We've been sayin' it was gonna happen for a long time now. The part we're all really wonderin' about is if she's ever gonna fly this place, 'specially now that someone like you came around." 

He glanced off towards the sea. "You want my opinion? Gods I hope so." 

"Then I wish you the best of luck with her, friend. Nature praise you." 

Time ebbs away. The shadows that drew the day's borderlines receded into the mountains as the sun came to rise. Dhamon's mulling about had ended, for there was a speck on the northwestern horizon. Its sails and their prideful red banners came into view for the sharpened eye, and like before, a migration of tradesmen and customers flocked to the far ends of the docks. Sumna Kante Omassi and his crew pulled into Atholma just before noon. He would depart again in the matter of an hour, and so too would the dervish. 

Dhamon continued to take his time as he made his way through the bumbling masses of charr and men. He often looked over his shoulder, searching for dark fur amidst the bright day and wondering if he was going to have to turn back around. Perhaps he should have gone to check on her earlier? Was something wrong, or was it a matter of patience? His heart went cold in anticipation. Not even leaving home for this place had left such an impact on him. 

"Dhamon Matthews!" shouted a friendly voice who cared little for his invisible plight. Sumna himself had stepped out of his boat to greet him. "In the flesh after all! I was wondering whether you'd go through with it, but then I thought 'where else is he gonna go?' Ha! Not many others ways off this rock. We've had to take Olmakhan to the mainland in the past as well." He wrapped an arm around Dhamon's shoulders and attempted to guide him down the docks. "You enjoy that gift, did you?" 

The dervish put up a bit of a resistance, still shooting glances over his shoulders to no avail. "I did. Though I might have gone about it a little too vigorously, looking back." 

"Oho! Don't we all, Dhamon? Don't we all! And we'll all be drinking 'til the dawn when we shove Joko's bones where the spears don't shine! I've already got a bunch of boys back home just waiting get take a bite out of that rotten bastard's men! Surprised I could even organize somethin' like that myself! With you there, we've finally got a fightin' chance!" 

"Perhaps we do," he said without really listening, weaving in between the crowd at the captain's lead. "Say, how long do we have to leave? I may have to...head back into the village for a moment. Maybe." 

Sumna clicked his tongue. "Oh, not long at all, I'm afraid. This trip's real close to the last--not much back-and-forth for us this time. The Olmakhan ain't low on supplies, and we ain't low on their money they gave us last time. Why? Shouldn't you be runnin' off to get it now?" 

A long, drawn-out breath left Dhamon's chest. "She'll come when she comes." 

Either the captain didn't quite hear what he said, or just didn't care. They plunged past traffic and onto the pier where a wide gangplank was laid to connect the elonians with the tribe. At the base of the gangplank were the usual suspects: several of the Olmakhan elders and the poor requisitioner whose busy wrist would surely ail him by the time he was middle aged. Dorran and Rhona were the ones stuck overseeing these transactions, faces ever-plastered with the same indifferent stare. Seeing Dhamon changed their expressions for the brighter. 

"Just the human I wanted to see," said Rhona in a still rather gloomy way. "How is your injury? Has it fully healed as Gawr predicted?" 

He patted the side of his stomach and nodded. "Perfect as the morning I set out for Atholma." 

"Excellent. Few times in my long life have I seen such a miraculous recovery from such a grievous wound, but I find it's only fitting that you of all would join that list." 

"Huh?" Sumna butt in, his heavy boots clattering against the floorboards. "Grievous wound? What're you talkin' about? I should hope you weren't trying to get out of our agreement by offing yourself, were you?" 

Dorran grunted at the captain. “In defense of the Olmakhan, Dhamon was pierced through the chest twice by the siege weaponry of ratpeople invaders. His survival and recovery proves that nature has favored him a great deal, elonian. You would be wise to treat him and his services with respect." 

For a brief moment, Dhamon forgot that he wasn't like other humans, who still saw the size and the teeth of a charr for what they were. Sumna, tipping his hat to hide his face, waved a dismissive hand and quickly started up the gangplank. "Yes, yes! I'll be sure to. Just- don't go scratching up the side of my ship. Or me, for that matter." 

The air around the elders was noticeably calmer without the captain around. Rhona even smiled for once. "Your people deserve you, Dhamon. That man does not. It was an honor to have you as a guest." 

"The feeling is mutual," the dervish said, his eyes still searching for black amidst the crowd. "I do not regret a single moment I spent here, nor the moment I decided to seek this place out. I know how you prefer isolation." 

"Here." Dorran reached behind himself into a mess of robes and packs. Out came some sort of long strap of woven leather strips that hang off either side of his hands. "A parting gift." 

Dhamon looked skywards. "Another? I can't stand the depths of your kindness, I really can't. It makes me feel like I've stolen away with something..." 

He took the gift into his arms. Upon closer examination, the bandolier was actually crafted at a ridiculous level of quality. The three-fold braid of dense siamoth leather likely made the thing nigh indestructible, yet it was embroidered and reinforced with an almost golden thread. Shamanic symbols and trinkets adorned the length of the strap that wasn't already occupied by spacious pouches. He even recognized the signet for the spell which he had used to train carved into one of the wooden ornaments, among others he didn't yet recognize. 

"Oh." The breath fell from his mouth. "This is really...Huh. Woah." 

"A tradition passed down for generations," explained Rhona. "This one I made myself. I thought it would make a fitting gift for a pious traveler." 

Lifting his cloak, he immediately set the bandolier over his shoulder and let its weight hang perfectly across his chest, slipping just behind the strap of his polearm. "Oh absolutely. This is more than I could have hoped for." 

"You will always be welcome in Atholma," Dorran said with a fanged smile. "Nature favor you on your travels, Dhamon, and let the winds guide you to peace." 

Those parting words stuck in his ears for a long time. They rang as he ascended the textured ramp that led to the deck of the boat. They rang as he took a vigilant place over the railing, staring out into the docks in an increasingly desperate search for his lover amid the sea of faces. When the chatter died down, and the merchants began to depart, and the bells of the ship chimed, that prayer continued to bounce around in his skull. It was getting much too late. She wasn't going to make it. 

And then she did. 

Gwynn seemed to appear like a shadow manifest. She stood at the edge of the docks, just beside the gangplank, and looked up at him. The wave of relief that shot through Dhamon was enough to make his knees feel weak, and was disconcertingly much stronger than finding out that he was still alive after being shot by a particle accelerator cannon. 

"Gwynn!" he shouted down to her, a fluttering feeling in his throat. "Gods above, don't scare me like that! The ship's about to leave and you wait until the last second to show! I was this close to jumping off and running to get you myself." 

But Gwynn's face had gone dark. The longer he stared, the more realization set in. She didn't budge from that spot on the edge. 

"I came to say goodbye," she said. 

"...No." Dhamon had to prop himself up against the railing to keep upright. "No, you didn't. You were going to come with me, Gwynn. It was going to be the two of us sailing off to Amnoon. That's what you wanted, right? To see the world with me? To leave Atholma behind?" 

The sandshifter couldn't even bring herself to look at him. "That was a cub's wild fantasy. Nothing more than that. I know that my place is here--anything else is just me running from my duties. I'm sorry if I have misled you." 

"It is not a fantasy!" He slammed on the side of the ship. They were getting stares from both peoples. He didn't care. "That's utter bullshit and you know it! Your mother was wrong! You don't have to do this to yourself anymore! You- You don't have to do this to me! Please don't do this to me. I thought-..." 

"Dhamon." That silver eye pierced him like a blade, and with two syllables she twisted the knife. "Goodbye." 

  


_____

Gwynn turned her back. It was an easy gesture to perform. A simple pivot of the legs was all it took to betray him. Then, all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other towards home. She knew this song-and-dance well. To move forward when every fibre of her being screamed to go back. Those feelings weren't strong enough to tell her tendons what to do. They haven’t been at any point in her life, and they most certainly wouldn't be now. The tears that blurred her vision did little more than slow her down. Come tomorrow, this month would be nothing but a memory of the past. A castle of sand reclaimed by the waves. 

"Wait! Gwynn, stop!" Not even Dhamon's shouting could stop her now, no matter how much it made her feel like she was trudging through mud. "You don't want this! I know you don't! Come back!" 

She didn't. Her eye was trained to the floor, watching the progression of her feet in case they tried to betray her. The sob in the back of her throat was swallowed and stowed with the rest. Her will would not be broken so easily. 

"I'll come back for you! I swear it!" 

And then he was out of earshot, voice buried beneath the crash of waves and the scuttle of her tribe. Even so, it was as if she could still hear him, the sound digging into her ears and not letting go. A shuddering breath escaped her. This was best, she reassured herself. This was what the Olmakhan wanted out of her. It didn't matter what she felt, because it never did. Not when the future of Atholma was partly on her shoulders to burden. 

Gwynn began to run. 

It started with a brisk walk to outpace her emotions, yet the feelings only seemed to grow closer the further she got from him. Soon she dropped to all fours and started to bound across the docks, weaving in-between skimmers and charr alike. The jog became a sprint before long. 

It felt like a thousand-year dam had finally burst, but it was all raw as if she lacked the words to describe it. A horrible flame burned in her limbs with absolute urgency. A gale swooped at her back and pushed her forward. A greater purpose came and overwrote everything she had ever buried deep in the recesses of her mind. 

Dhamon wasn't coming back for her. Not after she watched his life fade so easily, ripped away by two holes in his chest. He was fragile--mortal. He was going to die alone out there. And she was going to die alone right here. 

Oh what a terrible mistake. 

She had never run so fast in her life. Her feet hit dirt and immediately kicked up a storm in her wake, claws digging into the earth for traction. It took mere moments for her to reach her home. Nearly tearing the canvas from her entryway, she dove for the largest, most rudimentary pack she had and immediately began to fill it with everything in view. Ritualistic instruments, cooking utensils, sentimental items--anything in arm's reach. 

When she came to the chest of foreign keepsakes in the corner of her room, a small conflict that crossed through her head cost her several seconds, and resulted in her ignoring the drawer entirely. Why had she even come here in the first place? This was a waste of time. She simply chose instead to grab her next best staff, throw the bag over her back, and rush out the door, never to return to this room again. 

Bounding across the village, she saw the ship had started to depart from port in her hazy vision. It felt as though the rest of her life was burning out in just these short seconds, like a candle whose wick was all but ash. But she could still make it. So long as there was breath in her body, by the tempest she could still make it! 

Her blood ran cold. The elders. 

"Gwynn! What's your hurry?" Rhona shouted out to the sandshifter while on her way back officiating from the trade. "Solomon's already gone. You just missed him. He was looking for you, trying to pedal his trivial garbage on-" 

"I'm leaving." 

Rhona didn't seem to understand. "Huh? Where to?" 

"No. Atholma. I'm getting on that ship, and I'm not coming back." 

"You-" Her face contorted. "What are you saying? Gwynn, that ship's already sailed. And you can't just leave the Olmakhan on a whim!" 

It was exactly as she feared at first. But Dorran stepped forward next, his kind eyes seeing through the emotion of it all. "So it is time, sister? I had wondered if it would be with Dhamon's impact on you. Go, before it's too late. And may nature forever bloom in your wake." 

"Thank you," was all she had time to breathlessly mouth before taking off full-speed once more, Rhona's continued complaints deafened by the howl in her ears. 

She dodged past the same people, ducked below the same skimmers, and surged around the same piles of cargo and nets. The ship was starting to move away now. Its sails, still being wrenched open, readily caught the sea's breath and rippled to push the vessel onwards. The crew aboard the deck slowly faded into obscurity. But she saw him waiting there, still watching over the side. She was certain that he saw her, too. He had probably never looked away to begin with. Watch then, love, at this final gasp of life. 

As Gwynn started to run out of dock to chase the ship, she began to pray, and the swirling gusts obliged. "If my fate is to wither here, then let the sea swallow me whole! But if I can truly fly this place--if I am meant to set myself free--then let the waves carry my will!" 

Though an aura of natural energies had already begun to surround her, the seed of doubt in her mind had grown into the sturdiest tree the moment she leapt from the edge of the dock. Weightless she fell, the short fall spanning an entire lifetime of dreams. Then, like the final chorus of a hymn, the emerald surface of the ocean came and slammed into her arms and legs. The pain from the impact surged up her already-aching joints, but the discomfort was temporary, for she was given her answer as she stood firm upon the undulating plane. Gwynn broke out into a sprint once more. 

Her footfall splashed and brought stinging mists to wash across her face. The only thing she needed to see was the dark shape on the horizon, anyway. Though the wake of the ship had brought uneasy waters for her to trip over and collide with, there was not a force in all of nature's wrath that could stop her from making this journey. Should she fall through the surface now, she might as well sink to the bottom and let death take her sooner rather than later. 

"Gwynn!" 

Close enough to hear his voice. Close enough to still make it. Her lungs and heart had gone into a primal state, screaming for a rest but fighting for survival. Battered and soaked by the swell left in the vessel's passing, she lunged forward on borrowed strength and began to run alongside the ship, looking for her opening. But there was no easy way to board it from down here. A wall of wood stood between her and a lonely death. Atop it, her lover, and a curious crowd of sailors surrounding him and looking down at her. She could only spare a glance, losing distance at the mere motion of her head. It wouldn't be long before- 

No. Not today. 

The sandshifter swathed her back in an incredible gale and made the jump. She fell short, colliding with the sloped verticality of the hull. Yet her claws managed to stick into the wood. With no second chances, she had charged her very fingers with the same supernatural sharpness that enchanted Dhamon's blade, piercing the structure and allowing her to hang by the very tips of her nails. A pained grunt, a gasp, and another one of nature’s blessings was expunged so that she could reach another arm's length closer to freedom. One after another, again and again. It took more than she had. Then Gwynn looked up and saw Dhamon's hand extended towards her, his eyes red and puffy. That alone was enough to push her to close that gap. 

She very nearly pulled him overboard. It took the combined might of him and three other men to pull the charr far enough that she could scramble up the side and over the railing. One of the greatest exertions of her life ended with not an embrace, but a cough and groan. It felt like her chest had been hollowed out with a dagger, but she was here. Oh tempest she was here. Though this victory had wrung every ounce of willpower left from her body, she still shuddered to imagine the extent of the pain if she had failed. 

Dhamon knelt beside her, clutching at his dislocated shoulder with the biggest grin on his face. "You should have just boarded earlier, Gwynn! Melandru help me, you scared me half to death." 

"I was a fool," she managed to say, heaving all the while. "I was such a fool. Never again. I won't leave you again." 

"Hey, oi! What's this, then?" the well-dressed captain shouted as he stomped around the deck. "This is what you meant when you said you had to go back?! You know how much food it takes to keep a charr satisfied? You're lucky we bought extra to shell out on the voyage back! Lyssa within, you could have just told me upfront!" 

His words fell on the deafest of ears. The human and the charr brought their foreheads together, and it was like the whole world just disappeared. Even her exhaustion fell to the wayside. The doubt was gone. After all this effort--after years and years of her mother's voice becoming her own--it was gone. She knew exactly where she was supposed to be. Never had she felt a liberation this strong before. The same could be said for her love. 

"You won't have to," he finally said, his breath tickling her whiskers. "I promise."


End file.
